


The Canticle of Transfigurations

by wyles77



Series: Canticle of Transfigurations [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-17
Updated: 2018-07-17
Packaged: 2019-06-11 23:53:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 25,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15327183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wyles77/pseuds/wyles77
Summary: Justinia’s letter from beyond the grave brings Leliana and the Inquisitor to the chantry in Valence, seeking the Divine’s final gift to her most faithful servant.  What Leliana finds there, however, is certainly not nothing; in fact, it’s absolutely the last thing she expects. Slightly off-canon, spoilers for Inquisition, femslash, rated for mature themes.





	1. Valence

**Author's Note:**

> What if… the words that launched a thousand thousand fanfics. And this alternative take for Leliana’s personal mission just would not leave me alone. It appears that the torches that were lit in Origins are not easily extinguished. Dragon Age and all its sumptuous trappings including the Chant of Light belong to Bioware, and this is just me indulging my hopeless romantic. And also, here be ladies’ sexytimes and spoilers for Inquisition, although sadly, no actual dragons. 
> 
> NB this has been on ff.net for a while, but I'm moving stuff over here as well, bit by bit. Current project is still very much Burning Suns (see my profile for details)

“Looks like I got here just in time.”

The unexpected, slightly out-of-breath statement rings through the marbled silence of the chantry, shattering the stillness that foreshadows Natalie’s death at my hands.  The tip of my dagger kisses my former friend’s skin, drawing a single bead of scarlet to rest upon her alabaster throat.

But that voice freezes me.

I can’t make myself move.  The tiny effort of wiping the whetted edge of my blade across Natalie’s throat is beyond me. 

The sister’s prayer halts mid-word, her defiant gaze clouding with confusion. I can almost hear her thinking, _what is she waiting for?_

What _am_ I waiting for?

Heavy, booted footsteps echo off the polished floor and walls, bouncing until I imagine I hear a regiment advancing.  But I recognized that voice; I would recognize that voice, that high-born Fereldan enunciation, anywhere, and while it represents an army, it is an army of one.

_It’s_ not _possible.  Why here?  Why now? Maker, have I not given you enough?_ I rail at my god in the silent depths of my mind. _Have I not suffered enough, sacrificed enough? Have I not been faithful? Dutiful?  Have I not given you_ everything _that you have asked of me!  How much more will you test me?_

Behind me, the Inquisitor draws a surprised breath and a handspan of steel.  I dare not look round. My gaze is riveted to the blood on Natalie’s throat, the way the tiny pearl of liquid reflects both light and darkness.  There’s a metaphor there, overwrought and melodramatic; at least my sense of humour is still functioning, somewhere beneath my bemusement.

The footsteps halt, and a faint clink of metal on metal identifies the newcomer as armoured.  Hardly surprising.  I can smell it now – _Maker, can she truly be so close to me_ \- metal, oil and a dry leathery scent, overlaid with the faint, acrid, tang of rust.  Wet wool, too – it must have started raining – and the earthy, animal smells of mud and horse and sweat. 

She’s ridden hard to get here.

“I’m not a threat to you, Inquisitor. Maker be my witness.” The familiar voice is commanding, assured.  Honest. _Beloved_.

There’s a moment of silence, then the hiss of steel on leather as the Inquisitor re-sheathes her half-drawn sword, evidently satisfied there is no danger. A battered gauntlet slides between my blade and Natalie’s neck, prising the lethal edge away from the soft skin, and the faithless sister’s eyes widen as she looks up at her saviour. 

For saviour she most certainly is.

“Please, Leliana.  _Don’t_ do this.” The voice again, the unmistakable tone that has been denied to me for so long by duty and obligation, for too long heard only in dreams.

I can’t look at her, don’t dare to make her presence a reality, not while I have this task before me.  I _must_ do my duty. This is what the Maker demands of me, what the Divine demanded of me, what the Inquisitor demands of me, though Ser Trevelyan doesn’t really understand that as yet. “I must,” I refute the plea, my tongue heavier than lead.

“ _Mon coeur_ , please. Stay your hand.” The Orlesian endearment trips from her tongue smoothly, testament to my many lessons; a dozen memories of intimacy flicker behind my eyes at the phrase, warming my body. “You once asked this boon of me,” she continues, “to spare one worthy of only death; grant me this woman’s life in return.”

I remember.

 

_Rendon Howe spits in fury.  “Your father would be proud,” he sneers, his tone fouled with an ancient, gangrenous hatred. “And when your head’s on a spike next to his and your whore mother’s, he can tell you so.”_

_Instinctively, I shoulder my way in front of my love as she shifts her weight, prelude to a wrathful charge.  “No, cherie! Don’t.  You’ve beaten him. He’s defeated. All he has left are words, just sound and fury. He’s already less than nothing, no?  Killing him in anger will not bring them back, it will only haunt you. Please, my love. Don’t do this.”_

 

The memory brings a satisfied mockery of a smile to my lips at the vindication of my skills.  “He had a poisoned dagger.  If you’d charged him, he’d have stabbed you in the neck.  The life I spared that day was yours, not his.” My own blade had been the one that had ended that malevolent bastard’s life. Deaf to my own advice, I had struck him down in anger, but Howe’s death, unlike so many others, has never haunted me. The same dagger now waits in my hand; worn, re-hilted, re-sharpened until barely more than a stiletto, but precious to me for having been the weapon that brought her justice in that dank, dark hellhole.  For being the weapon that I used to protect her, even as she had defended me from Marjolaine. I try to ignore the whispering accusation at the back of my mind that her efforts were all for naught.

“And you think this is different?” 

The realisation that she believes I am somehow in danger disquiets me.  Natalie is hardly a physical threat, and behind me there are only allies, so how…

Fighting for comprehension, I don’t resist as she leans her weight gently against my blade. It falls from my suddenly slack fingers, skittering away across the floor. Using the space she’s created, she interposes her armoured bulk between me and my prey. “Go back to your mistress,” she commands Natalie, and the steel in her tone makes me shudder with equal parts trepidation and desire.  “The Inquisition does not fear your cackling crow of a Revered Mother. She is beneath their notice, but she has _most assuredly_ gained my attention.”

“And who are you?” Natalie spits as she scuttles away, ungrateful to the last.

She straightens to her full height, tall as most men.  Her back is to me, so I must imagine the smile that dawns beneath her determined stare, the cocky, confident smirk – _that damned look in the eye of every Cousland_ \- that has goaded many an idiot to their doom.  “Who am I?” she asks, her tone as cold as winter and as hard as diamond. “I am a slayer of dragons and archdemons. I am one who has looked into the mouth of hell and found it could be vanquished. I am the castellan of Fort Drakon, the commander of the Vigil, the conqueror of the Blight. I am the one who stands watch in the shadow between the darkness and the light. You know my name.  Get. Out.”

Natalie runs, graceless in her panic.  Every instinct drilled into me by my bard’s training, by my years at Justinia’s side, screams at me to retrieve my knife and bury it between the fleeing woman’s shoulders, but I am rooted to the spot, my eyes yearning for a contact denied me for so long.

Threat dispensed with, she finally turns, and I can no longer refute the reality of her presence. Quicksilver eyes lock with mine, haunted yet joyful beneath an unkempt crop of short, scruffy blonde hair. Dark shadows of exhaustion hollow out her eye sockets, and her face is pinched, gaunt and pale, but Maker, Aryn Cousland has never looked better to my incredulous gaze.

I want to speak, but thought eludes me, leaving me staring witlessly at her.  After more than two years, my parched senses drink in her presence, the one person in all Thedas capable of quenching the painful thirst of my soul.

“Andraste’s everlasting grace,” she whispers reverently, “I’d forgotten… Leliana, you’re _breath-taking_.” Silver fire burns in her eyes as she closes in, draws my hood back, and stoops to press a whisper of a kiss to my cheek.  The rough scrape of her chapped lips lights a flame beneath my skin, wakes something long-dormant in my emotions, something I’d feared lost.

“Aryn,” I breathe in reply, staring into the fatigue-clouded depths of her gaze, unable to look at anything else. If I look away, she might vanish. I do not wish to discover I am imagining this.  “What… what are you doing here?”

She quirks a tired, but genuine, smile.  “I’m not entirely sure. But I’m glad I came.”

Behind me, the Inquisitor pointedly clears her throat.  Aryn dips her head, masking a rueful grin as she turns and steps away, tugging off her gauntlets and reaching up to unpin her sodden cloak. I look her over, standing next to the woman I have helped mould into the Inquisition’s champion, and I can’t help but draw comparisons as I take in the details. Samara (or Sam, as she prefers) Trevelyan is almost the precise opposite of Aryn Cousland in every respect. Sam is short and slender, dark eyed and dark haired, with skin the colour of rich teak hinting at Rivaini heritage somewhere in her Free Marcher background.  Aryn is tall and well-muscled, all shades of gold and silver; blonde, grey eyed, pale as the snows of Highever, scion of a true Fereldan bloodline. Sam is not yet truly confident in her leadership, albeit much improved from the bewildered prisoner Cassandra press-ganged to our cause. Aryn wears command like a second skin; authority and confidence radiate from every line of her posture. Her upbringing as well as her position in the Wardens and at Ferelden’s court have made leadership as natural to her as breathing. And Maker, that streak of command has ever left me weak at the knees.

Even their attire presents odd contrasts. Sam’s armour is magnificent: Harrit’s masterwork, the Dragon suit, is a celebration of the smithing arts, the battle-garb of a hero and a legend, reflecting the light back from its dozens of burnished facets. Aryn’s dark, plain plate and mail is battered and scuffed, the patina and scars of hard use marring almost every surface, though I know the damage to be merely cosmetic. I recognize the maker’s mark etched into the breastplate; a smile quirks my lips as I remember Denerim’s eccentric master smith and his fussy merchant partner throwing us from their shop.  Aryn and Alistair had laughed so hard they’d been reduced to tears, their hilarity only heightened by Wynne’s lofty disapproval at their behaviour.  But we’d departed with a mighty prize, armour crafted from silverite and the hide and bone of a high dragon. Back at camp, the dwarven savant, Sandal, had laid silverite runes over every available surface; surrounded by darkspawn, the armour had shone like starlight throughout the battle for Denerim. Shortly after the Blight ended, Aryn took the armour to Mikhail Dryden’s forge at Soldier’s Peak to be skimmed with veridium and enamelled, masking its enchantments.  “I don’t really feel the need to let every darkspawn in the Deep Roads know I’m there,” Aryn had remarked wryly when I had asked why.  “Since whether I wish it or not, my path will always return to the Deep Roads.”

I wonder for a moment, as I watch her strip her cloak and lay it out over a bench to dry, what might have been if Cassandra’s original plan, to see Aryn take the role that Sam now holds, had come to pass. Just as quickly, however, I dismiss the flight of fancy. It’s not fair to Sam, who has been tirelessly, flawlessly brave and committed ever since she woke to Cassandra’s despairing wrath, a cataclysm she could not recall, and an unfathomable power she had neither sought nor coveted. Sam has saved people, Sam has built the Inquisition, Sam has bound us to our common cause, Sam has earned her position and the honours that flow to her.  She may not be as skilled a warrior, as able a tactician, or as courtly a noble, but she has overcome every obstacle in our path with tenacious belief, level-headed pragmatism, and obdurate courage. She has surpassed the role we thrust upon her in every way imaginable, proof that the Maker does not always move as we anticipate, and it’s unworthy of me to doubt.

“Leliana?” Sam’s voice carries a hint of earned impatience, and I pull myself back to the moment, remember my place. I turn to face her, and extend a hand to indicate Aryn.

“My apologies, Inquisitor. May I present the Warden Commander of Ferelden, and Knight Seneschal of Fort Drakon and Vigil’s Keep, Lady Aryn Cousland.  Aryn, Ser Samara Trevelyan of Ostwick, the Inquisitor, and styled the Herald of Andraste.”

Aryn offers a courtly bow. “At your service, Inquisitor,” she intones politely.

“A pleasure to meet you, Commander,” Sam replies genially.  “You’re a hard woman to find.”

Aryn accepts the criticism with an equable nod.  “I am, though I fear I can make no apology for the fact.” She sighs pensively. “I know you have much to do, Inquisitor, and I am grateful that you chose to accompany Leliana on this journey.  There is no doubt much you would like to discuss, and I can give you some time, but first, I must ask that you grant me a private moment with Leliana.” 

Sam looks at me inquiringly.  “Please, Sam,” I agree, breaking with my usual formality of address, and she nods.

“Very well.  I’ll wait outside.” She makes her way to the door and disappears beyond it, leaving me alone with my lover for the first time in nearly three years.

The need to touch her, verify she is flesh and blood, suddenly outstrips all other concerns. “Aryn,” I plead, taking a step toward her.  She throws her arms wide, steps in and engulfs me in a crushing hug, swinging me from my feet. I wrap my arms around her neck, legs around her waist, hanging on tightly as I lean down and kiss her, savouring her almost-forgotten warmth, her taste, her strength. Arousal thrums through my body like a plucked harp string. For a brief moment, I feel whole, happy for the first time in years, but then a groan tears from my Warden. She shudders beneath me, and as I pull back I see tears running unchecked down her cheeks. “What’s wrong?” I beg her, fear clutching at my heart.

“Nothing,” she assures me, a luminous smile breaking through her tears.  “I just… I missed you so much, Leliana.”

“I missed you too,” I confess as she sets me down.  “It’s been so long… I… Maker, you have no idea how _worried_ I’ve been!” My voice climbs into emotional registers rusty with disuse. “Ever since you left Soldier’s Peak with Avernus and Nathaniel…”

 

_A knock at my office door heralds an unwanted interruption, and I scowl as my clerk timidly sticks his_ _head around the door.  “Forgive me, Sister,” he apologises, “but there’s a Grey Warden here for you.”_

_A smile curves my lips.  I haven’t seen Aryn for a few months, between one thing and another; Justinia’s had me running all over Orlais, and Aryn’s last letter spoke of a Darkspawn swell near Caridin’s Cross that had Bhelen’s forces in disarray.  It must have been put down swiftly if she’s had time to make the trip to Val Royeaux.  “Send her in, please,” I ask, my irritation forgotten._

_Patrice looks disconcerted, but withdraws, to be replaced after a moment by a young man I do not recognise, nervy and wide-eyed, in formal Warden armour that seems too big for him.  “S-sister Leliana?” he stammers._

_Swallowing my disappointment, I offer him a welcoming smile.  “Be at ease, my friend. Welcome to Val Royeaux. How may I assist the Wardens?”_

_He proffers a tightly folded parchment, sealed with the winged sword of Cousland. “The Commander’s compliments, Sister.  She sent this for you.”_

_I frown; Aryn does not normally dishonour her wardens by demoting them to messenger boys.  Taking the letter, I fix him with an inquiring stare.  “Thank you.  Is the Commander in good health?”_

_“She seemed well when she left, Sister, yes.”  If the boy thinks it an odd question, he doesn’t show it, but his response has clamped a frozen fist around my heart._

_“What do you mean, she left?”_

_He blinks, confused.  “Uh… she left from Soldiers’ Peak with Lieutenant Nathaniel and Avernus, the same day as I left to come here.  Lieutenant Sigrun said she had business to attend in the Deep Roads.”  He peers at me anxiously.  “Are you all right, Sister? You’ve gone very pale.”_

_“It’s not… it’s not her Calling is it?” I whisper.  It can’t be.  It’s too soon. Surely, by Andraste, it’s too soon?_

_“Maker, no.” The boy laughs.  “She just said there was something she needed to do.”_

_I nod acknowledgement.  “Thank you, Ser Warden.  Patrice will see to your needs.”_

_He stares at me for a moment, not immediately recognising the dismissal, but then he blushes and bobs a clumsy bow.  “Sister,” he intones formally, then he clanks out of my office._

_I sink against the lip of my desk, break the seal with trembling fingers._

_Leliana, my heart,_

_Forgive me._

_I’d hoped to be able to journey to Val Royeaux to tell you this in person, but an opportunity has arisen that I must not permit to go begging. There’s something I have to do, and it can’t wait.  I dare not commit more to writing at this time – I ask for your trust and understanding, that what I do, I do for the best of reasons. I’ll write as often as I can._

_Be well, my love.  I remain,_

_Ever yours,_

_Aryn_

As time passed, the letters had stopped coming. Nathaniel returned, but would disclose nothing, and I was left with scraps; sightings in the Deep Roads, then rumours, then whispers, then silence. Abruptly, my joy and relief is eclipsed by righteous, scorned fury.  “How could you do that to me? How could you leave me to think you were never coming back?” I’m crying as I scream at her, hot tears of regret and wrath as the dam sunders and the frustration, loneliness and terrible, gnawing fear of more than two years of silence burst forth.  “I thought you _dead_ , Aryn! I was sure sending our scouts after you would mean I had to face that as reality!” A course I had actively avoided until Morrigan’s meddling request to the Inquisitor had left me with no more excuses. “When I spoke to Alistair in Redcliffe he was sick with worry, he had _no idea_ where you were."

_“Andraste’s sweet mercy, Leliana, what do you mean_ you _haven’t heard from her?”_

His reaction to my not knowing had ruined me; it was the moment, as I’d realised she had not even confided her plans to her best friend and dearest brother, that my fading hope had finally died. "Every time we found a rumour of a Warden, I dared to hope…” I had so desperately wanted Blackwall to be her, “…only to be crushed, over and over again.  And then the Wardens – how could they be so _stupid_? Do you know what it was like to search the ruins at Adamant? Praying that I would not find your corpse among the slaughtered, or worse, the possessed? Do you know desperate I was to believe you had no part in such lunacy? And then I found out they murdered Justinia! Your order… they murdered the Divine! My Divine! Maker, I…”

“Leliana.” One word, barely a whisper, but it’s enough to halt my tirade. There’s an agony of guilt, regret and self-loathing etched into Aryn’s features, but her eyes… Maker, the sorrow in her silvered eyes would drown the world.

And suddenly, it all crashes down on me, everything I’ve suffered, everything I’ve lost. Justinia’s kind, wise face is at the forefront of my mind as the anguish rises up to swamp me, as, finally, the need to grieve that I have displaced with work and war overwhelms my self-command. My knees give out and I sink to the floor, wailing like the broken-hearted, lost little child I am.

Aryn kneels before me, gathers me as close as she can while wearing armour, my mail scraping against her plate as she draws my face against her neck, fingers running through my hair as I sob. Her touch is impossibly soothing, as is the warmth of her skin and the so-familiar scent of her body. Closing my eyes, I surrender, weeping shamelessly in the care of one who loves me, and she simply holds me, infinitely patient as I spend my grief. When at last I quiet, she wipes the tears from my face with careful, tender fingers.

“I’m so sorry, beloved,” she says softly, barely audible above the echoes of my anguish.  “There are no words that can express how much. I never meant to hurt you, or frighten you. All I can do is explain, and beg your forgiveness, in the full knowledge that I don’t deserve your charity.” A tremor racks her.  “Maker, even your generous heart may not be big enough for this.”

Guilt twists my stomach in turn as I remember Sam’s futile remonstrance with me not to kill Natalie mere moments ago.  My heart is no longer as generous as Aryn believes it to be. I do not know if it ever can be again. “Talk to me,” I plead.  “Tell me everything.”

“I will,” she returns. “Some of it your Inquisitor needs to hear, and some she should not.” She wipes her eyes, then offers her hand.  “Come.  Let’s get this over with, and then we can talk for as long as you can spare.”

My heart sinks, the kernel of hope of a permanent reunion crushed before it has a chance to properly take root. "You're not coming with us?" _You’d leave me again_?

She bites her lip, keeps her hand outstretched, an appeal for my trust. "Leliana, I… please. Let me explain?"

I nod, taking her hand and falling into step with her as we walk toward the vestry. Diverting momentarily, I stick my head out the door and find Trevelyan sitting on the steps watching the rain.  "Inquisitor?"

She gets to her feet, her gaze searching my face for clues, her frown softening as she realises I’ve been crying. "I thought you’d forgotten about me,” she offers lightly, and I’m grateful for her tact. “Lead on, Spymaster."

Aryn's sitting on a reversed chair, forearms resting on the back, positioned where she can watch the door. I’m struck, wounded, by how much older she looks, how careworn; when we are apart for any length of time my memory reverts to the image of her as she was during the Blight, so very young and so very serious. She has always been older than her years, raised to take her responsibilities seriously, and forced to cast aside any lingering traces of adolescence by tragedy and necessity. Her older self tempers her seriousness with wry, sardonic wit, a wit that stems from the same dark root as her sceptical view of the world, the world that promptly forgot the Blight as soon as the Archdemon fell to Starfang atop Fort Drakon.

Aryn Cousland never forgets the Blight.

It haunts her, day and night, in every quiet moment, in every hour of sleep.  Except, she admitted once, in a moment of total vulnerability, when she is with me.  Then, she can forget. Only then.  “ _I only feel safe in your arms, Leliana_.” And I abandoned her to her nightmares to answer Justinia’s call.  That I did so with her blessing does not absolve me of neglect; the shadows beneath her eyes accuse me more eloquently than words ever could, words she would never speak. Can I blame her for her long absence when I was the one who set our feet on different paths, for the sake of a deep debt and a deeper faith?

Sam clears her throat to break the pregnant silence.  “So.  Our scouts found you then?”

“They found one of my lieutenants, who was kind enough to divert them,” Aryn replies dryly.  “The Deep Roads are no place for the uninitiated.”

The understatement brushes a shiver down my spine as dark memories assault my recall, of weeks spent beneath the stone, hunting lost thaigs and lost Paragons to end a war that was none of our concern.  The constant chittering of deep stalkers and spiders a in the dark; the obscene, damp warmth of the atmosphere, infected with the filthy miasma of the taint. Drums in the distance as the darkspawn answered the Archdemon’s call to arms, a call that night after night woke both Aryn and Alistair screaming from their nightmares and drew shrieks to our encampments like flies to honey. And deeper, to a terror that still has the power to wake me in a cold sweat ten years later; Hespith’s insane, sibilant whispers, Branka’s heartless sacrifice of her kin in pursuit of glory, and the grotesque, leprous form of the brood mother nesting amid altars of putrid, ruined flesh.

 

_Aryn is on her hands and knees, surrounded by a puddle of darkspawn blood and guts and her own vomit, body heaving violently over and over as she retches, fighting for the air to breath in hoarse, rattling gasps.  “Alistair,” she moans desperately.  “Alistair!”_

_I try to comfort her but she shrugs me off.  “Alistair!” His name becomes a near-scream.  “Alistair!”_

_Her brother warden eschews Wynne’s well-meant inspection of his wounds, rushes across and kneels beside her, heedless of the gore as he bundles her into an ungainly hug, gauntleted fingers clumsily stroking her hair. She clings to him, gasping and shivering._

_“It’s all right,” he soothes, ludicrously.  “It’s all right, it’s dead. It’s dead.  It can’t hurt you now.”_

_“You promise me, Alistair,” she sobs between laboured breaths, “you promise me now… on your warden’s oath… that you’ll kill me yourself…. before you let them take me… make me one of those…things.”_

_“Aryn… Maker, I…”_

_“Promise me!”_

_Alistair cups her tear-streaked face in his hands, bestows a chaste kiss on her forehead.  “I swear on my oath as a warden.  I won’t let them take you.”_

_She stretches out a hand to me. “Leliana too,” she chokes out. I crouch beside both of them, hug them both to me._

_“Or Leliana,” Alistair promises, voice muffled by my shoulder._

 

“Leliana!”

I blink, drawn back to the moment.  “Sorry,” I sigh.  “Seeing Aryn has… well, it brings back memories.”

“The quicker we get through our business, the quicker you can have her to yourself,” Trevelyan says, not unkindly, and I nod agreement.

“As you say, Inquisitor.”

“What can you tell me about Corypheus, Commander?”

Aryn shrugs.  “Precious little.  If you’ve spoken to Marian Hawke…”

“We have.”

“Then you know more than I do, no doubt. All I know is what Hawke told Bethany shortly after the encounter.  Which culminated in Corypheus’ death, so I paid it no more mind.”

“You didn’t think to look into it?”

“No.  The wardens at Weisshaupt had it in hand, and, as I said, if he was dead, he was of no further concern.  Living darkspawn are more worthy of my attention.”  Aryn scuffed a boot against the floor.  “Hindsight has wonderful clarity, Inquisitor, but it’s always wise to remember that in war, we do what seems right at the time. And that we have to live with it afterwards.”

“I’m sorry,” Sam says sharply, “but I admit I’m having a hard time believing that someone of your rank in the Wardens wouldn’t be aware of a threat like Corypheus. You’re the Commander of the Grey in Ferelden!”

“And I was a warden less than a year into my service when I was so named,” Aryn replies with cool patience. “Understand this, Ser Trevelyan.  Thedas is huge, and the Wardens are comparatively few and far-flung. There are less than twenty of us in Ferelden even now. We’re also as a rule proud, secretive, and not given to trusting others with our confidences lest they be misunderstood.” She flicks a wry glance at me; her refusal to disclose certain of those confidences has caused more than one argument between us over the years.

“People assume when they hear of the Wardens, that they are an order,” Aryn continues.  “Like the Templars, a regulated hierarchy with rules and regulations and protocols.  Nothing could be further from the truth.  The commander of each outpost, each garrison, each national cohort, has almost total autonomy. Among the Wardens, it is expected that those who can do a thing, will do it. Rank does not necessarily play a role. Weisshaupt is the heart of our brotherhood, but it is the library, the archive, the memory. The First Warden is the keeper of that memory, a political figurehead, and is always appointed from among the Weisshaupt command.  Unless you go to Weisshaupt to study, you get by with whatever information you can find. In the field, our traditions and lore are largely oral, and Duncan had neither the time nor the inclination to teach me legends. He didn’t even have the time to teach me the fundamental truth of being a Warden. What I know of our history is gleaned from time I have spent in Orzammar – the Shaperate has a long memory.”

“You’ve been in Orzammar all this time?” I ask.

“I resupply there, when I can, but no – mostly I have been deeper in the Roads than any sane person should venture.”

“With only Avernus for company?” I ask, horrified.

Aryn huffs a short, cynical laugh. “Avernus’ particular brand of madness makes him an ideal companion for the Roads. He’s such a contrary old bastard that he refuses to be depressed by being down there – being away from his books is the true torture, regardless of where ‘away’ actually is.”  She shakes her head.  “I sent Nathaniel home because it was eating him alive.  Sigrun has accompanied us for most of the time, thank the Maker, and Oghren stops by whenever Felsi kicks him out, once every four months or so. But where was I?”

“You not knowing about Corypheus,” Trevelyan supplies, clearly unable to let the subject drop.

“Yes. When Bethany told me of Hawke’s encounter with Corypheus, it troubled me, but since her sister’s letter was necessarily brief, it told me little. The only part I took to heart was the warning that he could influence Warden’s minds, mimic the Calling.” 

"And you've felt that?" Sam asks.

Aryn nods, the merest inclination of her head. "I have. It’s faint, because I’m a long way removed, but it’s there."

"Yet you don't seem to be panicking about it like most of your brothers."

Aryn sighs heavily. "They don't know any better. Most of the current wardens in Orlais had not been recruited when the Blight came, or if they had been, they were too distant to really feel it. This calling of Corypheus' is weak in comparison to the presence of a true archdemon, which is why, I think, Alistair and I have been less affected. And also, I know I'm too young." She shrugs.  “Even allowing for the possibility of the Blight hastening my deterioration, I should not be hearing the Calling after only ten years.  Five years from now, I might have had a very different reaction.”

I bite my lip and look at the floor. I have always known her life would be curtailed, but can two-thirds of what life remained to her really already have been spent?  Maker, how could I have been so careless? Has my blind adherence to obligation and faith cost me – cost her – the chance to enjoy her life? How could I have forgotten so quickly that she was supposed to die killing the archdemon, that for her to be alive at all is a miracle?

If Aryn sees my distress, she does not comment, keeping herself focused. “You’ve gone to a lot of trouble to contact me, Inquisitor,” she continues, “only to ask pointless questions about what I do or do not know. Come to the point.  What do you wish of me?”

“I would have thought that was obvious,” Sam replies earnestly.  “The Inquisition needs your help.  You’re the Hero of Ferelden, you’ve defeated a Blight, and you’d be a rallying point for the people. I have a company of Wardens who need a leader. And you’re a skilled warrior and tactician. Morrigan said you could be a mighty ally or a terrible enemy, and while I’m overjoyed you’re not the latter, I’d be even happier if you were the former.”

“Morrigan?” Aryn darts a surprised glance at me.  “You know her?”

“She’s an advisor to the Inquisition on all matters arcane,” I chip in.  “A position she has also held in Empress Celene’s court for the past three years.”

“So that’s where she slithered off to,” Aryn mutters. She rubs her hand across her face. “Is she alone?”

“No,” Sam responds, looking very curious, “she has her son with her.  Kieran.  He seems a fine lad.”

A squall of pain flickers over Aryn’s features, and she sighs.  “Good.  That’s good. Forgive me, you surprised me – I lost track of Morrigan years ago.  I didn’t expect to hear of her.  But in any case, she rates my abilities rather too highly.”

“She said you were friends.”

“We were.” Aryn shrugs.  “Maybe we still are – I haven’t spoken to her in nearly ten years. Regardless, while I’m flattered by her opinion, and your interest, I regret I cannot join your Inquisition.”

“Corypheus will destroy the world if he’s permitted to,” Sam says heatedly.  “We need all the help we can get.”

“One more sword will not tip the balance for you,” Aryn disagrees.  “And your Inquisition already has an inspirational champion.  It has you. The woman who can close rifts.  The woman who healed the tear in the sky.  Andraste’s Herald.  Andraste’s chosen.”

“Surely _you_ don’t believe that,” Sam scoffs. “Not after all you’ve seen.”

“No. I don’t.” Aryn scratches at her neck. “Any more than I believe that bloody high dragon that lived above Haven was Andraste re-incarnated.” She raps her knuckles on her breastplate. “But what I believe, or what you believe, doesn’t change the truth.  Nor the fact that this, unfortunately, cannot be my fight.”

“I thought the Wardens were supposed to defend against evil?” Sam accuses angrily, deploying the righteous passion that serves her so well. It’s a gift Aryn shares, like Alistair’s skill with a king’s rhetoric. But my warden is immune to the magic she herself can wield so well, merely cocking a sardonic eyebrow at the challenge.

“Defence against evil is the purview of the Chantry, Inquisitor. Not the Wardens.”

“But how can you stand aside? Do nothing?” Sam demands incredulously.  “Especially when your order is largely to blame for starting this!”

“Because I have an obligation!” Aryn retorts, anger erupting in her eyes.  “One I cannot lay down, no matter how right or true my intended cause.  This is not a children’s fable, Inquisitor, where the path to victory is also righteous, this is the real world!”

Sam stiffens, offended. “I don’t know what you…”

“Dumat.” Aryn spits the name harshly. “Zazikel. Toth. Andoral. Urthemiel. Razikale. Lusacan. Seven Old Gods, seven blights.  We’ve seen five, there are two more to come. At minimum.” She launches herself to her feet, begins to pace in agitation.  “In peace, vigilance.  In war, victory.  In death, sacrifice. This is my creed, and I may not frivolously cast it aside.  There is no way to predict a blight, no set passage of time between them.  The next one could start tomorrow.  The last blight devoured half of Ferelden, and it was horrifying enough for the months that it lasted, but the first one lasted _two hundred years._ And it covered all the lands of Thedas.  Generations lived and died at war with the darkspawn. If, Maker willing, you defeat Corypheus, there will _still_ be another blight, and another.” She halts, her gaze boring into mine rather than Sam’s, imploring me to understand.  “I _must_ stand sentinel against that threat, and I cannot spare anyone under my command from that duty.” She lets out a derisive snort. “ _Particularly_ since Clarel succumbed to one of the more spectacular fits of mage-trained decision making the world has ever seen.” She took a deep breath.  “The order in Orlais is compromised, and it is perhaps for the best that they seek public redemption with you. People have short memories, and little gratitude, and we have used up too much with this folly. But the larger order must endure, to guard against the next blight, and that endurance must be my priority. If the Grey Wardens are wiped out by Corypheus – which is no doubt part of his design – then _nothing_ will be able to stop the rise of the next Archdemon!” She grimaces as she realises she is shouting, lets out a long breath, tempers her tone. “It is not that I do not wish to help – there is nothing I would like better than to wipe Corypheus from existence.  But I cannot, at least not in the way you would wish, and my orders will stand.  My Wardens are either holding watch at the Vigil, or holding watch at the gates of Orzammar, and there they will stay.” She sits down again, meets Sam’s gaze with honest tiredness.  “I am truly sorry, Inquisitor. That must be my final word.”

“But…”

“ _No_ ,” Aryn cuts her off vehemently, her tone suddenly frustrated, almost pleading. “Please.” She looks down at the table.  “I can’t.”  She hunches in on herself, defensive. “I did not come here for your Inquisition.  I had already written a letter declining your invitation when my plans changed.” She pulls in a deep breath. “Before the Blight even took hold, I lost my entire family, my entire world, in one night, to a murdering bastard.  Even after I discovered Fergus had survived the butchery at Ostagar, I found my brother a broken man who deems my presence too hurtful a reminder of his losses.  There was one soul, and one soul alone whose light and grace was a balm to my pain, who could make my nightmares fade. One person who rescued me from my darkest hour, made me want to live again, and whom I hold more precious than any other thing in this world.”  She looks up at me, tears standing in her eyes, the fire of her anger doused suddenly by longing and regret.  “Understand, Sam Trevelyan,” she says hoarsely, “that were there any way I could escape the confines of my conscience, to stand at Leliana’s side in this fight, _I would already be there!_ My only hope of realizing that dream is to complete the search I have started. But I beg you, do not tempt me by asking again. Because if you ask often enough...” She trails off as her voice cracks, fixes her gaze on the floor.

And I know what she was about to say, what terrible offer the very last thread of her sense of duty has managed to curb.  If Sam asks again, if _I_ ask, she’ll come with us.  For love of me, she’ll spurn her obligations, do what I ask of her.  And the guilt of doing so will ruin her. “No,” I cut in, resolutely, forestalling Sam’s reply, uncaring of the unshed tears roughening my voice.  “No.  I can’t ask that of you.  I _won’t_. I’d let Corypheus burn the world before I ever hurt you like that.”  Sam stares at me, mute with surprise, as though she’s really seeing me for the first time.  “Aryn, beloved,” I whisper, crossing the room to crouch beside her, casting off my gauntlets, taking her hands and squeezing them.  “I understand.  It’s all right.” Her hands flex in mine, and she runs her thumbs over my knuckles.

“Thank you, _mon coeur_ ,” she murmurs, for my ears alone, then she sits up, wiping her cheeks clear of tears.

Silence reigns for a brief moment, then Sam nods slowly.  “I do understand,” she offers quietly.  “I’m sorry. I hadn’t thought of the bigger picture, at least, not in terms of the darkspawn.”

“They’re something of an obsession of mine,” Aryn jokes, but her humour is forced.

Sam laughs anyway. “I can imagine. Will you at least tell me what you seek?”

“A cure for the Calling,” Aryn says simply, as though it isn’t an idea so titanic it can barely be contained in this building.  “The taint is necessary to give a Grey Warden their abilities, but the price is an executioner’s blade at your neck.” She spreads her hands. “That all men must die is a given.  My oaths as a warden compel me to fight for those who cannot fight themselves, and, if necessary, to die for them. I accept that bargain. But I do not accept that I must live under a death sentence. I underwent the Joining at eighteen.  If the best comes to pass, I will still be dead before I am fifty, and no healing magic known to man can change that.”

“The Joining?” Sam queries, and Aryn hesitates, looks to the ceiling for guidance.

“If I tell you,” she says eventually, “this can go no further.  Normally I would not disclose this, but given how much you already know…” She regards each of us in turn.  “Do I have your oaths that you will speak of this to no one?”

“I swear,” Sam and I promise in unison.

“The Joining, the ritual that connects us to the darkspawn, and taints us, requires blood magic.”  Aryn wrinkles her nose in distaste.  “Darkspawn blood, lyrium, and one drop of the blood of an Archdemon are mixed in a chalice, and we drink it.”

“Maker’s grace,” Sam breathes, horror-struck.  “But darkspawn blood is poison, is it not?”

“It is. It kills two-thirds of those who volunteer.” Aryn bows her head solemnly. “Those who fall are considered wardens, honoured and buried as such.  The corruption is what lets us sense the darkspawn, anticipate their moves, predict their attacks. But it is also what kills us – eventually, after a time, the taint becomes too much for the body, and you begin to turn.   That is when the Calling begins, and when a warden traditionally goes to the Deep Roads to end their life cleanly in battle.”

“It is the Joining that makes you able to kill an Archdemon as well, no?” I ask, sickened anew by the recollection of the fate that awaits her.  We’ve never talked about it much – instinctively, I knew she wanted to shield me from it, but Maker, the knowledge has never stung so much before. Not now that I have seen the panic, the insanity it can drive brave men and women to.

“Yes.” Aryn nods, shifts her weight uncomfortably.  “An Archdemon’s physical form can be killed by a normal person.  If that happens, it simply possesses the body of the nearest spawn, since they are soulless.  But if the spawn closest to it is a Grey Warden, who already has a soul, then both souls are destroyed when the Archdemon tries to merge.”

Sam frowns. “So the Warden dies?”

“As you say.”

“Then… how is it that you survived the Blight?”

Old regret sparks in Aryn’s eyes, and she shakes her head.  “That is… not my secret to tell.  I will only say that it was not my doing, nor was it done at my behest.  It was a… gift… from two friends, one of whom I know thought that what they did was right, the other whose ulterior motives I hope never to learn.” She shrugs.  “As I said, in war one does what seems best at the time.  And lives with it afterwards.”

Alistair and Morrigan.  I’m sure of it, as I recall the wisps of an argument overheard.

 

_“… Thought you were doing! I told Morrigan no!”_

_“I thought I was saving your life! And it wasn’t your decision, so don’t you dare try and take the blame for this! It was my choice.” Alistair has tears in his voice. “Maker’s breath, I can’t do this alone, and you’re too important to me. You’re my best friend, the only one apart from Duncan who ever gave a damn about me as a person from the moment we met. I couldn’t let you throw away your life, and you wouldn’t let me, so where did that leave us? I know you’d have done it willingly, I know you weren’t afraid…”_

_“I was afraid,” Aryn whispers.  “I’ve never been so scared in all my life.”_

_“Funny, I could say the same about the night before.” Alistair cracks a grin.  “If only Riordan hadn’t fallen off that bloody dragon… Listen, Morrigan’s gone.  She got what she wanted from us, and I don’t regret that.  I can’t.  Not if it means you’re still with me, and you have a chance to be happy with Leliana. Nobody’s sorry you’re not dead, you hear me?  Nobody.”_

_“What if someone finds out what you did?”_

_“I’m a King, thanks to you.  I have an army to protect me.”  Alistair smiles lopsidedly.  “And if ever I can do something to protect my friends, I will.  And you’ll just have to learn to live with that.”_

 

“If I can survive the Blight, if there are darkspawn who are self-aware, like Corypheus, then other truths we have held as carved in stone may not be immutable,” Aryn continues.  “And if we do not need to fear the taint, we can be more open in our recruitment, prevent needless deaths in the Joining, and build hopes and expectations for a future, rather than the burden of the condemned man we carry now. That is my goal.”

“And how will you accomplish that?” Sam asks. Aryn shakes her head.

“That I will not tell you.  In part because the details of alchemy and sorcery are as a foreign tongue to me, and in part because you do not need to know.  It is not your fight, and you have more pressing things to worry about.”

Sam looks at me in appeal, and I shake my head.  “I’m sorry, Inquisitor, I don’t know.” I cock my head to one side.  “But if you leave her with me, I might be able to wring a confession from her.”

Aryn laughs.  “I thought Orlesians were meant to be subtle?”

“I’m a Fereldan, remember?” I chide.  “I have to keep in practice once in a while.”

“And I’m Free Marcher enough to know when to beat a retreat,” Sam cuts in as she gets to her feet.  “I’ll leave you two to talk.”

We wait in silence until the doors to the Chantry boom shut, then I get to my feet and offer my hand.  “I should see what Justinia left for me.  Come.”

Aryn takes my arm as we walk through the marbled hall. “Your Inquisitor seems a good woman.”

“She is.”  I smile fondly, remembering Josephine’s breathless recounting of her last trip to Val Royeaux.  “Honest, loyal, brave, intelligent.  Passionate.”  I throw her a coy smile. “She duelled an Antivan nobleman to win the hand of her lady love.”

Aryn arches an amused eyebrow.  “Did she now?”

“Mmm.  It was _very_ romantic.”

A chuckle. “Are you feeling ill-romanced, beloved?”

“Well, it _has_ been a while. Would you fight a duel for me, brave warrior?”

“No.” Aryn grins insouciantly.  “I never trained with a rapier.  But I’d gladly chop anyone who offends you into dogmeat with my longsword.”

“That somehow lacks the requisite panache.”

“But it’s from the heart.  Besides,” Aryn’s smile softens, “I _did_ buy you a nug.”

I laugh.  “You did.  And you bought me replacements when he died. Maker, Justinia _hated_ them.  She was allergic to them, you know.”

Aryn shakes her head.  “I didn’t know. I might have bought more of them if I had.”

My humour fades as I sense she’s not entirely joking, and I remember that Aryn had never really warmed to Justinia.  They’d met infrequently over the years; Aryn’s trips to Val Royeaux had been few and far between, and Justinia had on numerous occasions disrupted my travel plans with unforeseen missions. Aryn, stubbornly refusing to blame me for these disappointments, would usually cast aspersions on the Divine’s intent whenever it happened. It was one of the few subjects that could cause us to argue, in part at least, because I hated to let her down, because Justinia’s close presence was difficult to say no to, and I have never enjoyed being torn between two loyalties.  But in the end, my needs, and Aryn’s, had always come second to our respective duties. We both understood that and accepted it, even if neither of us liked it.

The alcove opened by the hidden mechanisms is sparse, an altar supporting a simple jewellery box.  Taking a deep breath, I lift the lid to reveal…

Nothing.

“No! This can’t be it.”  I turn the box over, shake it out, but it’s empty. “There’s nothing here!”

“It’s not what you expected,” Aryn offers quietly, reaching past me to flip the lid over.  “That doesn’t mean it’s nothing.”

There’s writing carved into the base of the lid.  Lifting it, I read aloud. “The Left Hand should lay down her burden.”  Stunned, I look over my shoulder at Aryn. “She… she’s _releasing_ me.”

Aryn nods wordlessly.

“The divine has a long reach,” I whisper, my voice cracking, “but it is always her left hand that reaches out. A thousand lives, a thousand deaths.  Her command, but my conscience that bore the consequences.”

My warden embraces me from behind, drops her chin on my shoulder. “I’m so sorry, my love.  I should have been there for you.  I should never have left you alone for so long.  Remember your heart, Leliana. Remember your compassion. Remember you are not Marjolaine.”

“If not for you, I would have killed Natalie and called it a good thing.” I tremble in her arms, feel the warmth of her breath against my neck. “And Marjolaine? Her games were trifles. Justinia gambled with the fate of nations. She needed me.  No one else could have done what I did.”

Aryn places a kiss just below my ear.  “Let it go, Leliana.  You don’t owe her anything any longer.”

“She… she told Sam to tell me she was sorry.  That she’d failed me,” I murmur. “She carried a fear that she’d used me, as I’d been used by others in the past.”

“She did use you,” Aryn states with brutal honesty. “You were compelled by duty and obligation, and she used you.  She used your faith to drive you. And I compounded the damage with my absence.” She draws me closer.  “That she loved you, I do not question; she considered you a daughter. But she needed you for your skills, and in the end, that need outstripped all other considerations, even unto your well-being. She felt guilty for doing it, but she did it anyway. You don’t become Divine without a measure of necessary ruthlessness. And she knew I was the one person that could turn you from that path, so she kept me away from you, as often as she could. And,” her tone turns bitter, “I, bloody great fool that I am, blamed you for that, believing that it was what you wanted.”

“How could you know that?” I ask, turning to face her, knees weakening as I see the harsh guilt and self-reproach that scar my love’s face.

"Yours was not the only letter Justinia wrote," Aryn replies. "I am not entirely foolhardy - Nathaniel has always known how to contact me at need." She sighs pensively. "Justinia's letter was both confession and apology, wrapped in a request that I not forsake you - as if such a thing were possible."

“But you did," I whisper, unguarded and honest in my turn, "when you left me behind for your duty to the Wardens.”

The guilt that wells up in her eyes makes me want to snatch the words back, but the hurt of that day in Val Royeaux is a wound that has never really healed. Never been cleansed.

“I didn’t," she protests weakly.  "I didn’t leave for duty. Not that the intention matters once the damage has been done.” She shook her head despondently.  “I woke up one morning and I realised it was nearly eight years since the Blight ended.  And I counted all the time I had spent away from you, and there was far, far too much.  And the more I thought about it, the more I feared we were growing apart. Part of the secret of living with the taint, of living longer, is to live a full life.  And I realised I wasn’t.  My years were slipping away.” She takes my hand, presses a kiss to my knuckles. “Without you, I’m damned to have far fewer of them. That night I had my first full-blown taint nightmare since the Blight, as bad as any I remember.  Nathaniel told me it took them two hours to wake me, and I was screaming for you the whole time.”  Aryn swallows hard, as though the memory has a bitter taste.

“Maker, I…” Guilt and pity rise like bile, thickening my throat.  I remember vividly how bad those nightmares can be; at times I’ve feared she would snap her spine in the convulsions.

She rests a thumb against my lips. “It was not your fault. Don’t for a minute let yourself think that. But it was a catalyst. I decided I was not going to sit around and wait any longer. We left the next day.  We tracked the Architect to his new lair, and he and Avernus are working together, attacking the problem from both sides.”

“And you trust them?”

“I trust them to co-operate on this one goal, where they both have a vested interest.  Avernus is dying, and wants his life’s work to be completed.  The Architect wants the Wardens as allies, and he cannot free his kin without us.”

“Thinking darkspawn…” I try to wrap my head around it.  Ever since Aryn first told me of the Architect, I’ve struggled with the idea.

“Are another weapon against the Blight,” Aryn says. “Darkspawn are dangerous precisely because they are a hive mind, compelled by instinct or an Archdemon’s will to destroy and desecrate.  If they can be taught they have something to live for, freed from their compulsion, there will perhaps be fewer of them to fight in future. They could even come to view the Blight as a threat themselves.”  Aryn grimaces.  “I know it’s an awful risk to take, but I have the First Warden’s blessing to try. As it stands, he only loses me if it goes wrong.”

“Don’t talk like that,” I rebuke.  “Your life is not some cheap trinket to be thrown away on a whim.”

Her gaze locks with mine, searching, troubled.  “You still believe that?” she whispers.  “After all the stupid things I’ve done that hurt you?”

“That’s hardly a single-edged blade, no?” I rebut.  “I’m at least as guilty of hurting you.” I press my fingers to her lips.  “Don’t argue with me.  Not when I’m right.  I know you’re unspeakably chivalrous, but we’ve both made mistakes.  We’re here now. We still love each other.”

She nods slowly, then looks away. “I heard rumours, on my way here,” she confesses. “That your name has been put forward as the next Divine.”

My heart drops into my boots. “That’s true,” I reply cautiously.  “One among many candidates, of course.”

“Would you accept? If they offer you the Sunburst Throne?”

I wait for her to look up before answering. “Are you asking me not to?”

She holds my gaze for a brief moment. “I don’t have any right to ask that of you,” she declines, looking away dejectedly.

Certainty fills me, and I grip her chin, forcing her gaze back to mine. “You have the only right,” I pledge in a whisper, closing the space between us. “Because I love you.” I wrap my arms around her neck.  “I love you,” I repeat, more confidently.

“I love you too, Leliana,” she returns with simple conviction.

 “I know,” I assure her, “and I know that I chose to sacrifice my happiness and yours on the altar of duty. I know that for love of me, you placed yourself on that altar willingly. I know that for love of me, you would do that again.  And I know that for love of you… I do not want you to.” I kiss her, chastely.  “Ask me,” I whisper against her lips.  “Ask me. That which lies within my power to grant, is already yours.”  
“Oh Maker…” Aryn groans, crushing me closer, “please, Leliana… don’t walk where I can’t follow.  I just need a little more time. Avernus thinks he’s close now. Please… please don’t leave me alone.”

“Never again,” I swear, wishing that she were not in her armour, that I could get close enough to hold her warm, strong body against mine. Wishing Valence had an inn that was still open, where I could spend at least one night in her arms, grant us both the peace we so desperately crave.  The memory of her hands and lips on my skin is near-forgotten, and a sudden, wild urge to be reminded lights a fire in my belly, send a pulse of arousal pounding through me.

“I can’t lose you,” she pleads.

“You won’t. Aryn, my love, you have me. Whenever you are ready.”

Her eyes darken to steel, and she swallows hard.  “Soon, Leliana, I promise.  I’ll come home to you.  Claim you as mine.”

 “Claim me now,” I beg, suddenly desperate for her to consummate that promise.  “Make me yours. In the sight of the Maker.”

And she does. 

In full sight of the Maker, his prophet, and every icon in the Chantry.  Her capable, combat-roughened hands unbuckle my surcoat then snake beneath it, loosening the laces of my breeches as I kiss her neck. She grasps my hips, lifts me to the altar, buries one hand in my hair and pulls me close.  She kisses me, hard and combative as her free hand pushes into my breeches, beneath my underwear. She makes no comment on how desperate I must feel, how much my body wants her touch, as I arch my hips shamelessly against her hand. I hook my legs around her waist, holding her close. “Please, _mon coeur_ ,” I implore, “Oh Maker, please….”

“Many are those who wander in sin,” Aryn recites softly as her fingers slide over my aching, wet flesh, “Despairing that they are lost forever.”

A moan tears from me, a desperate counterpoint to her words. She presses me down, lays me out on the altar, pushing my shirt up to bare my stomach.

“But the one who repents, who has faith…”

Her fingers trace over my abdomen with practiced familiarity, as though we have never been apart.

 Unshaken by the darkness of the world…” Beneath my smallclothes, her other hand explores my sex, tormenting me with gentle teasing.

“I need you,” I plead, tensing in delicious anticipation.

 “And boasts not, nor gloats…” Her fingers sink into me, confident and sure, and my hoarse gasp echoes from the vaults. “Over the misfortunes of the weak, but takes _delight_ …” She thrusts again, setting a slow, torturous pace. “In the Maker's law and creations, she shall know…”

A tiny part of me, somewhere very far away, is appalled by her casual sacrilege; a much larger part of me thinks this is the most erotic thing I have ever heard in my life.

My body agrees; every nerve in me burns for her touch, a fire that burns hotter with each deft thrust of her fingers. “The peace of the Maker's benediction…” Aryn’s voice is becoming steadily more breathy as she pleasures me, her fingers working in rhythm with her words, syncopated with the caress of her thumb against my bud.  

“The Light shall lead her safely…” She knows the cadence of my body’s responses as well as she knows the measure of the chant, and the arcane blend of piety and profanity is unravelling the fabric of my self-command. My hips begin to roll instinctively against her strokes, my breath sobs in my throat, and all I can do is bury my face in the sweat-damp warmth of her neck and cling to her.

“Through the paths of this world, and into the next…” She strokes my cheek with her free hand, tender and achingly gentle. Within me, she finds the heart of my intimacy, the secret place that for these past ten years, she alone has enjoyed the right to touch.  “For she who trusts in the Maker, fire is her water.”

She stakes her claim with confidence, with passion, and the cranking tension arches my back, drives my hips into her hand as every muscle draws tight as a bowstring. “Maker!” I yelp, fighting for control.

“As the moth sees light and goes toward flame,” Aryn wraps her arm around my back, holds me tight, the confinement somehow heightening my tension as she intensifies her speed and rhythm, finding the precise combination that will undo me, “she should see fire and go towards Light. The Veil holds no uncertainty for her…”

“Maker, please, Aryn,” I beg, drowning in the sensation, clinging to the last threads of coherence as a tremor ripples through my belly, jerking my hips.

Aryn pauses in her litany to kiss me ardently, her tongue duelling fervently with mine.  “I love you more than the Maker ever could, Leliana,” she swears as we break, breathless, desperate.

“I know,” I gasp, shivering with tension, body and soul held right on the brink of release.  “Oh, please, beloved, claim that which is yours.” 

“You’re mine,” she declares stridently. Our gazes lock, sapphire and silver. I fancy Creation itself takes a breath.

“And you will know no fear of death, for I shall be your beacon and your shield, your foundation and your sword.” There is adoration and honesty and an unbreakable vow in her face as she drives her fingers deep, one more time.

The world shatters around me.  My cry of pleasure, full-throated this time, echoes round the nave, shimmering in the incense-laden quiet, the echo punctuated only by the breath sobbing in my throat as the aftershocks jar me over and over again.

She gathers me in, cradles me close, as though I am impossibly precious and fragile.  She is the only soul with whom I can be. As she holds me, caressing me with soothing touches, whispers sweet endearments against my hair, I complete the chapter of scripture she has quoted. “The one who repents, who has faith…Unshaken by the darkness of the world…She shall know true peace.” Reaching up, I thread my fingers in her hair, rest my palm against her cheek and take a kiss from her lips. "I love you."

"I know," she echoes, kissing me back, a gentle, promising touch of her lips against mine.

“Thank you,” I whisper against her mouth.

“What for?”

“For reminding me of who I am. That I am more than what Justinia made me. I am not the Spymaster, the Left Hand, the bard. I almost lost myself.”

“You’re _so much more_ than any of those things,” Aryn assures me. "But may I ask one thing of you?"

"Anything."

"Be yourself. Remember your heart, and your love. Don't hide your compassion, your generosity, your beautiful soul. Sing, laugh, tell jokes, tell the stories you love. Really live. And remember that I will return to you."

I smile, deeply content for the first time in years. "That's more than one thing, Aryn."

"I can repeat myself as many times as it takes," she offers slyly, flexing her hand and making me squirm, and I laugh with her.

"Much as I would love that, I should probably go," I sigh when the moment has passed. "I've asked enough time of Sam as it is."

Aryn is silent for a moment, then she nods resolutely. She presses a kiss to my temple and releases me. "Of course." Tenderly, she helps me re-dress, her fingers quick and sure on the laces and buckles of my gear.

“Be wary of Morrigan,” Aryn counsels once I am properly attired.  “I don’t know what her intent in allying with the Inquisition is, but I doubt it’s purely altruistic. And her son… he may have some part to play.”

“Are you ever going to tell me what you know about that?” I ask with no small exasperation.

“If you don’t discover it for yourself in this business with Corypheus, ask me the next time you see me,” Aryn hedges.  “If he has a part in all of this, you’ll know soon enough.”

“He’s just a boy, Aryn.”

“No,” she disagrees as she draws my hood up.  “He isn’t. But if there’s one thing I trust about Morrigan, it’s that she’ll protect him at any cost.”

I take her arm, and she walks me out to the door, to where our Inquisitor is occupying herself with tending the horses. My mount, one of Master Dennet’s forders, a solid, unpretentious bay mare with a comfortable gait and plenty of pluck, is dwarfed somewhat by Trevelyan’s barded charger, its armour nearly as ostentatious as its mistress’s. The warhorse is nervy, shifting his weight, upset no doubt by the challenge of the newcomer.

And what a challenge he is. The third horse tethered to the bar is a magnificent blue roan stallion, massive of chest and near-on seventeen hands tall, pawing the ground and tossing his head as he watches the Inquisitor like a hawk.  I smile as his nostrils flare at the scent of his mistress, an inquiring snort rumbling from his chest.  “Carinus,” I call softly, then I whistle a quick cadence.  The stallion stills, cocking his head to watch as I approach, and permits me to lay a hand on his velvet muzzle.  “There you are, my Coeur du Lion.” His ears flick as he rubs his head roughly against me, shoving me back into Aryn.  “You big softie,” I chide affectionately, a giggle rising in my throat in spite of myself.

“You always could ruin his reputation,” Aryn smiles, capturing me from behind and squeezing me close.

“I couldn’t get near him,” Sam apologises, her tone intrigued.  “I wanted to rub him down, but…”  
“He’s a bad-tempered old sod, Inquisitor,” Aryn dismisses the apology with a smile.   “Leliana was always his favourite human.  She bribes him - sneaks him apples when she thinks no one’s looking.” 

“I do not!” I protest automatically, a bashful grin finding my lips, and Aryn grins along with me as she kisses my cheek.

“Sometimes, Sister Nightingale… you are a truly _terrible_ liar.” She turns to Trevelyan.  “I have two gifts for you, Inquisitor, if you’ll permit.”

“Of course,” the Inquisitor agrees, casting me a curious glance, and I realise that her perplexity is because of me. Has she never heard me laugh before?  _Surely_ she must have.

Aryn pulls a small scroll from one of her saddlebags. “It’s not exactly a secret that you’ve been using Grey Warden treaties to conscript men and supplies for the Inquisition.  Alistair will turn a blind eye to it – I daresay Leliana has kept him informed – but not all of his nobles are so sanguine.  I can’t legitimize your activities in Orlais, unfortunately, but this writ, signed and sealed by me and witnessed by my lieutenants Nathaniel and Sigrun, grants you leave to use the Warden treaties to deal with the darkspawn threat raised by Corypheus in Ferelden.” She smiles sardonically. “It’s not much cover, I grant you, but better than nothing.”

“It’s a lot better than nothing,” Sam disagrees with a grin.  “Josie’s been tearing her hair out ever since Blackwall’s duplicity came to light.  Thank you, Commander.”

“There’s not much else I can do,” Aryn says regretfully, “but I have one more idea for demonstrating that you have my support, even if I can’t be there to say it in person.” She unbuckles her shield from Carinus’ saddlebow, and hands it to the Inquisitor. “Uncover it.”

Sam pulls back the rough cloth cover to reveal the Cousland coat of arms, marred by three deep scratches across the face.  She looks up, shock etching into her features. “Is this…”

“It is the shield that I carried against the Blight,” Aryn answers with a nod.  “The scratches were a gift from the Archdemon.  The Cousland sigil is a symbol the darkspawn have learned to fear – it would please me if Corypheus is taught to fear it as well. Use it with my blessing.”

Sam bows.  “I will take it on loan, with thanks.  And on the condition that you come to reclaim what is yours, when you can.”

“A condition I will be glad to fulfil,” Aryn agrees, with a wink for me that says she’s not thinking about the shield.

Sam turns to her own mount, frees her dragon-wing shield from its strap.  “Here, take mine.  You’ll need a good shield, and it’s never let me down.”

Aryn accepts the shield and hefts it on her arm.  “It’s got a nice balance.  Thank you, Inquisitor.  Maker watch over you.”

“And over you, Warden-Commander.”

Aryn fishes something out of her saddlebag, and steps close to me. “When I have my answer, I will come for you,” she promises, running her fingers deftly through my hair. “On Andraste’s holy name, I swear. I am not interested in being parted from you any longer. I love you, Leliana.”

“I love you too.  For my sake, Aryn, please – be careful.”

She kisses me one last time, an ardent, wordless oath, presses what she’s holding into my hand, tugs on her gauntlets, then swings into her saddle.  Carinus, ever alert for the chance to intimidate, rears, pawing at the air with his steel-shod hooves as his battle cry rents the air.  Aryn bursts out laughing at his antics, and I laugh with her as I blow a kiss farewell.  She wheels the stallion, he plunges forward, and they are gone, galloping hard around the bend and lost from view in seconds.

Sam watches after them for a long moment, then sighs softly.  “If you’ve been holding me to that standard all this time, I’m amazed you didn’t throw me out on my arse months ago,” she observes wryly.  “Your Hero of Ferelden is quite something.”

“She is,” I agree, “but Sam?”

“Yes?”

“She’s not the Inquisitor.  You are.  And I should have told you long ago that we could not do this without you, and that I am proud to have you lead us. Justinia’s loss blinded me to my compassion, to my heart.  I ran from my emotions out of fear, and grief, and I should not have.  I’ve been standoffish and distant, because I was afraid. I regret that I have let you see me like this, lost in the darker aspects of my nature.” I rest a hand on Trevelyan’s shoulder.  “I am honoured to serve you, Inquisitor. We could not ask for a better champion for our cause. I will do better. You deserve nothing less than my best effort.”

The Inquisitor blushes furiously, then smiles. “The thought of you being more competent than you are already is more than a little scary, Leliana, if you don’t mind my saying.”

I chuckle.  “I’ll take the compliment as it is intended, Inquisitor.”  Looking down, I open my hand to see what Aryn’s gift is.  A piece of parchment, carefully folded, with the broken seal of the Divine clinging to the edge.  Justinia’s letter to her.  So that I might know the truth. I unfold it, and tears sting my eyes even as I smile. Nestled in the crease is a single white wildflower with a delicate blush of red at the centre; Andraste’s Grace. Cupping it to my face, I breathe in the scent, and as I do, I feel a weight lifting from my shoulders.

“I don’t recognise that flower,” Sam admits.

“Andraste’s Grace.  It was my mother’s favourite scent.  Aryn never forgets to bring me one whenever we meet.”

“So she’s a romantic underneath all that dragonbone and sarcasm, is she?”

“The greatest I have ever known,” I agree, re-folding the letter and tucking it into my belt pouch.  “Which reminds me, I must apologise for threatening you about Josephine. You’ve made her very happy, and I’m grateful for that.  Her family often make her life… difficult.”

“So I’ve gathered, one death threat, three social scandals and a duel over her hand later,” Sam laughs.  “It seems I’ve quite the knack for landing up to my neck in interesting situations.”

“As long as you can get out of them again, as my old friend Zevran would say. Not that he should be considered a role model, mark you.”

Trevelyan regards me thoughtfully. “Don't think I don't appreciate just how much we've achieved because of you, Leliana. I know that some of those decisions must have been hard for you. So thank you for each and every sacrifice you’ve made.” She hops into her saddle.  “You and Cassandra were well chosen, shield and blade.  Justinia’s judgement was impeccable.”

And if her judgement is that I may finally be free of this duty… well, who am I to argue with the Divine? Smiling, I untether my horse. “Come along then, Inquisitor.  If we ride hard, we might yet make the ferry this evening.  We have a lot of work to do.”

“You haven’t changed that much, have you, slavedriver?” Sam groans.

“Well, if you prefer…”  I swing into my saddle, pull my hood back, shake my hair free, and grin as I drive my spurs into my horse’s flanks, “I’ll race you.”


	2. Skyhold

Skyhold.

It’s quite a sight. 

The last rays of the sun stain the snows a delicate, blushing pink, and the massive fortress stands brooding and shadowed upon its peak, thrusting arrogantly into the darkening blue sky. Sparse bursts of yellow and orange mark the torches of the sentries on the walls – from this angle, on the road below the barbican, it’s impossible to see any light from within the walls.

I never imagined my path leading me here.  Somehow, when I’ve thought of my homecoming at all, it’s always in Val Royeaux.  Kicking in the doors of the Grand Cathedral, perhaps, bedecked in shining armour and silver samite, riding a prancing white charger length of the nave, and sweeping my beloved onto my saddlebow for a chaste, chivalrous kiss.

Or so the tales my bard loves to spin would have you imagine.  But my horse is not white, my armour is tarnished and battered, and I’m decidedly _not_ interested in chaste kisses.  Grinning at the thought, I nudge Carinus into a weary trot up and around the final bend; both of us are ready for our journey’s end.

There’s a lone sentry at the gate.  Doubtless he has friends on the battlements of the barbican, but I’m a little too tired to care about the disposition of the Inquisition’s forces at this juncture.

“Who goes?” the sentry calls, levelling his pike and grounding the butt against the flagstones.

“I have dispatches for Sister Nightingale,” I reply.

“Pass phrase?”

“The dawn has come.” Leliana has been leaving the pass phrases with Nathaniel ever since I saw her in Valence, in the hope that I might have need of them.

The sentry relaxes, lifting his pike, and nods permission to continue.  “Pass, friend. You’ve perfect timing – the party’s in full swing.”

“Best news I’ve heard all year,” I allow, urging Carinus past him before he starts wondering why one of Leliana’s agents would be riding a pureblood Orlesian warhorse. “Maker’s blessing, friend.”

As Carinus steps out onto the low-walled bridge that leads to the fortress proper, I suppress a shudder at the hollow clop of his hooves on the stonework.  The chasm beneath is deep, plunging away into the darkness, and I’ve crossed too many such structures under attack, or fearing for their soundness, to really trust our footing.  A memory of the Blight stirs...

 

_Wrestling the hurlock alpha that has knocked me down, vertigo upending my senses as we slide together towards the gaping maw of the abyss below, armour squealing as it scrapes against the stone.  Getting in a lucky blow and pitching my adversary off the edge. Fleeting triumph, then blood-chilling panic as I realise I can’t stop my own slide over the lip. Fingers scrabbling fruitlessly for purchase on smooth dwarven flagstones as I flail around in a futile bid to ward off death._

_Leliana’s horrified, helpless scream of denial pealing through the air. “Aryn!”_

_Shale’s thick fingers catching the edge of my breastplate, the golem hauling me bodily back from the brink at the last moment. The fading echoes of the hurlock’s shriek as it plunges into the unimaginable depths._

 

Maker, I remember it like it was yesterday.

Carinus, fortunately, is of steadier disposition, ambling across the bridge without any need for direction. The second sentry repeats the challenge issued at the barbican, and the pass phrase gains me a smile of welcome and access to the courtyard. Dismounting, I lead my tired horse into Skyhold, stretching my legs gratefully after too many hours in the saddle.

I’m finally here.

And I’m nervous.

I was sure the confrontation with Corypheus would come before Avernus succeeded with his experiments, that I would find Leliana returned to Val Royeaux. I think I would have preferred that; the anonymity of the city would have suited me.  Here, there’s likely to be no place to hide from Leliana’s curious colleagues, no time for me to adjust.  Still, there’s some comfort in the fact that not many people are likely to recognise me, and everyone’s attention will rightfully be focused on Sam Trevelyan and her glorious victory.

The Maker is quick to remind me he has a sense of humour as I walk Carinus into the stables, disturbing the dozing of the elderly man stretched out on the hay bales.  He starts awake with a shout, then blinks at me blearily.  “Andraste’s sacred tits, you gave me a right fright,” he grouses.

I grin, feeling my nerves ease somewhat; what odds would a bookmaker have given on the first person I encounter being an old acquaintance?  “My apologies, Master Dennet.  I would have been quieter if I’d realised.”

He frowns at me, studying my face carefully, then his jaw drops open as recognition dawns.  “Maker… milady Aryn!” He bobs a quick bow. “I’m sorry, for a moment I didn’t recognise you.”

“I’m in disguise,” I retort dryly.

“It’s not a very good disguise,” Dennet chuckles, stroking Carinus’ muzzle as he looks the stallion over.  “Not one of mine, this fellow, eh?”

“Regrettably not,” I admit.  “He was a gift from the Empress of Orlais for quelling the Blight.”

“He’s magnificent,” the horsemaster observes in an admiring tone. “I’ll get him settled, milady.”

I whistle the four-note cadence he’s trained to respond to. “Remember those notes, Horsemaster, and he won’t try to kill you.”

Dennet nods as he takes the stallion’s reins.  “Leave him to me, milady.  I’ll see he behaves.”

“I’ve no doubt.  How is it you’re not at the celebration?”

Dennet laughs; all around, horses whicker in response.  “I’m far too old and grumpy for that kind of thing, milady.” He waves at a crude plank door behind him. “My quarters are back there if you’d like to wash and change.” He winks. “And if you want to leave your gear here, I’ll see it’s sent along.”

A grateful smile tugs at my mouth. “Thank you, Master Dennet.  For being so kind as to remember me, and for such a warm welcome.”

“Not likely I’d forget you.  Pretty girl who showed up in the village in our hour of need with our prodigal king-to-be and kicked the arse of all those undead.  You certainly made a lasting impression.”

I chuckle.  “One my mother would have been horrified by, I’m sure.  Farewell for now, Horsemaster.”

I strip my weapons, cloak, gauntlets and mail, fish the ill-fitting, formal tunic I bought in Orzammar and my last clean pair of breeches from my saddlebags and take Dennet’s offer of a place to wash and change. Clean and dressed in fresh clothes, I feel better, less tired.

Dennet directs me to the keep, and as the sentry opens the door for me the noise of a celebration floods out, washing over me in a disorienting wave. My nerves return in force; it takes me all of my willpower to take the steps that will allow the guard to close the door against the night’s chill.  There are so many people, laughing, talking, rejoicing, all in a cacophonous din that hurts my ears.  I’m no longer used to being around people, not in such large gatherings.  For nearly three years, the only souls I’ve spent any time with are a crotchety, dying old man too wrapped up in his research to talk much, a taciturn dwarf with a sense of humour blacker than ogre’s blood, and a darkspawn abomination who only speaks when directly addressed with a question or detailing what he wants brought back for his research. I’ve grown used to weeks passing with barely a conversation, hunting in the deep dark where an ill-judged sound can bring an army of spiders, or a patrol of darkspawn swarming down upon you.  I prefer the spiders.  They’re harder to fight, but at least all they can do is kill you. I run my right thumb reflexively across the base of my fingers, feeling for the poison ring I always wear now. My last line of defence.  Sigrun has one too; we never speak of them.  We don’t have to.

My thumb finds the ring, empty at the moment, but the feel of the band, the conditioned reassurance, is enough to ground me. I close my eyes, focus on my breathing until it evens out.  My heart rate slows, and I mop the sweat from my brow with my sleeve, resulting in an uncomfortable tug across my shoulders; the damn tunic is far too tight.  _I can do this_.  It’s simply a party, and most people are far enough along in their revels to be focused on their immediate companions.  _If I can just find Leliana…_

I lean back against the wall beneath a splendid mosaic and study the crowd, but I can’t see my beloved anywhere.  I can see Cassandra Pentaghast, and Sam Trevelyan, both surrounded by throngs of well-wishers, and the memory of being the centre of such attention brings a wry smile to my lips.  The parallel is not lost on me; at that gathering, I wanted nothing more than to sneak off with Leliana as well.

I notice Cassandra looking around with a slightly desperate expression as she tries to disengage from an unwanted conversation. The opportunity to help her and myself at the same time should not be passed up, so I steel my nerve and step forward into the crowd, only to inevitably lose sight of the Seeker as a new group of people arrive in the hall from one of the side entrances, flooding past me in an unwelcome flurry of brushing limbs and boisterous laughter. “Maker’s balls,” I curse, halting and studying the floor for a moment to centre myself.

A whistle from my left attracts my attention. A slight, blonde elf with bright, sharp eyes looks me up and down appraisingly from where she’s standing with a massive, grinning qunari. It’s a disconcerting sight; the most I ever remember seeing from Sten was a slight smirk. 

“Hey, big girl!” the elf calls, beckoning me.  “You sound like you need company. I can help with that.  Name’s Sera.”

Well, any help has to be better than none, and at least she hasn’t recognized me. “Aryn.  I’m looking for Sister Leliana,” I reply.

“What, Sister Scary?” the elf exclaims.  “You one of her knifey-shiv-dark people? Don’t look much like one. But you’d have to be, right? I mean, no one else _wants_ to go near her, yeah?”

I frown at this revelation, and the qunari lets out a gruff chuckle.

“Red’s not _that_ bad, Sera.  In fact, of late, she’s been a lot more relaxed.  Happy, almost, in her own way.”

“I wouldn’t know – I don’t go near that bloody bird’s nest she skulks in. Not even for a dare, right?”

“It’s been the talk of the castle,” the qunari observes.  “No one’s quite sure why.”

Sera grins salaciously.  “Maybe she found someone brave enough to give her a good hard shag. I mean, shite, she bloody well needs _some_ sort of outlet. What d’you think, big girl? Reckon your boss got herself diddled witless?”

I push down the snarling urge to spring to Leliana’s defence, product of embarrassment at the observation being a bit too close to the mark for my comfort. “I wouldn’t know.”

“Yeah, maybe got some big strapping hulk to tie her up and ravish her,” Sera says gleefully.  “Bull, you’re not holding out on me are you?”

“Course not,” the qunari says amiably.  “But I don’t think I’m Red’s type, somehow.”

Sera leers at me. “Wonder what her type’d be, eh?” She cocks her head, considering. “D’you think she _does_ like it a bit kinky?  Straps and whips, maybe a good hard spanking? She’s so bloody bossy, makes you wonder, yeah?”

I shrug, trying to stay calm as a memory needles my temper, _Leliana standing in the doorway of Howe’s torture chamber, shaking so much I can hear her armour rattle, deep-rooted fear twisting her expression to a grimace, tears running steadily from her terrified but determined blue eyes. I stretch my arm out, offer my hand. “I won’t let anyone hurt you, Leliana,” I swear. “On my life.” She squeezes her eyes shut, takes a trembling breath, then grasps my hand tightly and steps over the threshold._

 “Oi! I said, what do you think, big girl?”

“I think I don’t want to know,” I say curtly. Sera isn’t to blame, she has no idea, but anger is building in my chest regardless.

“Oooh, touchy,” Sera exclaims in a childish, sing-song tone. “All right, what about you, then?  D’you like strapping great hulks, girl your size? Or little delicate boys?  Or maybe you prefer women, eh?”

Maker, I really am out of practice with this kind of conversation. Discomfited, I throw a plaintive glance at Bull.  “Is she always this direct?”

Bull nods, grinning.  “Pretty much.  Though I think that’s the subtlest proposition I’ve heard her make to date.  She must really like you.”

“Oh, I do,” Sera drawls.  “All them muscles – you’re busting out all over. So how about it, eh?”

“How about what?”

“You and me, big girl. No point beating about the bush, yeah?  Not when you could have your fingers _in_ the…”

A pointed throat-clearing cuts the elf off, and she turns with a scowl to confront whoever interrupted her.  “Bloody hell, just because some big fancy hats decided you’re on speaking terms with the shitting Maker’s no reason to go pissing in my conversations!” she complains.

Cassandra steps to my side.  “Be quiet, Sera,” she commands coolly.  The elf puffs up with outrage, but Bull’s hand on her shoulder settles her back as Cassandra turns to regard me, a wry smile quirking the corners of her mouth. “I _thought_ that was you. You took your time getting here,” she remarks blandly.

“Better late than never, Most Holy,” I reply, grinning as she rolls her eyes in consternation.  “I heard the proclamation on my way here. Should I curtsey?”

“Oh, Maker, please.  I’m not Divine yet.” The Seeker catches me in a rough bear hug, which I return gladly.  I’ve always liked Cassandra. Her practical, blunt nature is a good foil for Leliana’s appetite for elaborate intrigue and risk, and she’s kept my love from harm on many occasions when I could not. I owe her much, not least for accepting the position of Divine. Deep in my heart, in the dark centre of my soul, I’m desperately relieved Leliana wasn’t asked.

“I’m not sure if I should congratulate you or commiserate,” I observe when Cassandra lets me go.

Cassandra arches a wry eyebrow.  “Both would likely be appropriate.” She leaves a companionable arm around my shoulders.  “It’s very good to see you, my friend. Dare I assume that you bring good news?”

“You can assume that, yes.”

“That’s wonderful,” Cassandra says, simply and sincerely.

“It is that,” I agree. “So much so that I can still hardly believe it myself.”  The taint is still there, I can still sense darkspawn, and other Wardens, but it feels different.  Less… filthy. And the Calling – the Calling _will not come_ for me. We tested Avernus’ cure on three of our brothers already in the Roads, and all of them swore on their oaths that it stopped the dreams and the whispers outright. I was the first one to take it after them.  I haven’t had a taint dream since. Avernus and the Architect were confident enough that the change is permanent; only time will tell, but I am at last able to be hopeful about my future. It’s still a little too new and life-changing for me to fully comprehend. “For right now, though, the best thing is that I’m out of the blasted Deep Roads.”

“The Deep Roads?” Sera squawks as Cassandra relieves a passing steward of an ale mug.  “You’re not one of them bat-shit crazy Wardens, are you?”

“If I am, is your proposition withdrawn?” I ask, halfway between amused and offended now that I have an ally.

Sera looks torn. “Shit! I don’t know. You’re still pretty, and all muscles, the way I like, but…”

Bull roars with laughter, and I grin, suddenly much less embarrassed. “Well then, you should also know I’m already spoken for.”

“What, I’d have to fight someone for you?  Easy.  Who do I have to carve into little bloody strips to get you up against the wall?”

I take the tankard Cassandra offers and tap it against hers with a wink, taking a deep gulp of the crisp, cool ale before replying.  “Leliana.”

Sera gawps at me as Bull guffaws again.  “I think that might be too much even for you, Sera.”

“I could take her,” Sera asserts, a slight sulking edge entering her tone.

“I very much doubt that,” Cassandra snorts derisively.  “And even if you managed it, I hardly think Aryn would then be inclined to reward you.”

I shrug carelessly.  “I would feel compelled to take vengeance.”

Sera frowns at me.  “Hang on… Leliana? Sodding hells, you’re the bloody hero of Ferelden, intcha? The warden that killed off the Blight?  And you’re a noble…”

Sensing a possible disengage, I offer a florid bow. “Lady Aryn Cousland, Hero of Ferelden and conqueror of the Blight, Seneschal of Fort Drakon and Vigil’s Keep, Warden-Commander of Ferelden, heir presumptive to the Teyrnir of Highever, and occasional dragonslayer, at your service.”

Sera wrinkles her nose. “Ugh, forget I said anything. Far too much bloody baggage. C’mon Bull, let’s go find some better people.”

Cassandra bursts out laughing as Bull winks at us and follows the now-surly elf into the throng.  “Maker forgive me, I’ve been waiting for that opportunity for months.  Thank you, my friend, for ensuring it came along in time for me to be able to enjoy it.”

I raise my tankard.  “I’m sure it’s the least I could do. So… Divine?”

“Yes.” Cassandra waits, smirking slightly.

“Is it what you wanted? Or did you feel compelled?”  I take another sip.  “I’m not judging, mind, I’m just curious.”

“It’s what I want,” she admits.  “I have often thought of how I would change things if I had the opportunity.  The Chantry has done terrible things, things it must condemn if it is to fairly represent all the people of Thedas.  Change must come, and I would see it happen. I am willing to try, at least.”

“I can’t think of a better person to change the world than you, Cassandra,” I say, and I mean it. The Seeker, for all her fiery temper, her impatience, and her legendary singleness of purpose, is perhaps the noblest soul I have ever known.  She does what she believes to be right, no matter the personal cost.  I can’t say I could do the same; I’m happy to gamble my life for a cause, but I’m not sure any force in heaven or on earth could make me sacrifice Leliana for the greater good.  Wynne, Maker bless her spirit, was right. _I told you so_ , her kind, wise voice whispers smugly in my ear.

Cassandra blushes slightly at my words, a faint pink hue chasing over her cheeks.  “You are kind to say so, but I wonder in my heart if Leliana would have been a better choice.”

“Different isn’t necessarily better,” I offer, “although I’ll admit to being selfishly overjoyed that she didn’t have to make that decision.” I look around.  “Speaking of our adorable Nightingale, do you know where she is?  It’s not that your party isn’t fun, but…” I’ve had enough of this, already. I need to see her. Touch her. Hold her. Tell her. _I’m free. I don’t have to leave you ever again_. _I won’t ever leave you again._

Cassandra grimaces as she looks around.  “Maker’s breath, she is _supposed_ to be here.  The Inquisitor ordered her to attend.”

“Since when has _that_ been an effective tactic?” I wonder incredulously, and Cassandra chuckles.

“Sam is a kind, thoughtful, and loving person, and a dear friend, but she can sometimes be just a little… slow to learn,” the Seeker remarks wryly.  “I expect Leliana will still be working.  Let me just…”

“Cassandra, darling, you absolutely _must_ come with me. The Vicomte de Lusignan is positively _beside_ himself with excitement at the thought of meeting you.”  A strident, confident voice with a refined Free Marches accent cuts the Seeker off, and I bite down on my lip to keep my expression impassive as First Enchanter Vivienne flounces up in an extravagant rustle of silk.  “Oh,” she sniffs with grandiose contempt as she sees me.  “Crawled up out of your rat hole, my dear? Come to share in the spoils of a victory won in spite of your order’s malfeasance?”

“Charmed, as always, Madame de Fer,” I reply coldly, unwilling to give her the satisfaction of snapping at the bait.

Cassandra scowls. “Vivienne, that is not fair.  Aryn is…”

“Don’t waste your breath, Cassandra, really,” I cut her off wearily. “Go, attend to your guests. I’ll catch up with you tomorrow.”

Cassandra glares at Vivienne to forestall any further comments. “My apologies, my friend,” the Seeker says ruefully. “Until tomorrow, then.” She grabs the mage by the arm and hustles her forcefully away. 

“Bitch,” I mutter sullenly at the enchantress’s back. There are few people in this world that I can honestly say I can’t stand, but the so-called Iron Lady, passing her sneering, bon-mot judgements on those less fortunate than herself from her position of impossible privilege, is most certainly one of them.

The crowd shifts again, opening a clear path to Trevelyan, and I start forward with the intent of inserting myself into the group of Orlesian nobles she’s engaged with. She looks round at the movement in her peripheral vision, and her expression brightens into a genuine smile as she cuts off her conversation and threads through the crowd to meet me, dragging a somewhat mortified-looking Antivan woman in elaborate, ruched yellow silks along with her.

“…Have any idea how much I’m going to have to grovel to them to make up for your rudeness?” the petite Antivan is complaining in a resigned tone as they move within earshot. Trevelyan ignores her, stepping forward and offering her hand.

“Welcome to Skyhold, Commander. It’s so good to see you again.”

I clasp hands with her warmly.  “Thank you, Inquisitor. Congratulations on your victory. The world is a safer place with Corypheus’s evil vanquished.”

For a moment, as our gazes connect, Sam Trevelyan looks impossibly beaten down and worn as the horrors that she’s contended with, the trade-offs made between her conscience and necessity, the sacrifices and the bloodshed required to win her war swamp her recollection. The pain in her eyes is raw, and my hand tightens on hers in reflexive sympathy; I know exactly how she feels. “It eases,” I promise quietly.  “You carry it ever after, but the load lightens with time.”

She nods resolutely, and I gesture to the surrounding hall. 

“It’s quite a place you have here.”

Her smile re-ignites. “Now, yes. Maker, you should have seen the mess when we arrived,” she chuckles.  “We were camped in the courtyard for two weeks.” Curiosity blossoms in her expression.  “Did you find what you were looking for?”

“We did, thank you.”

“Congratulations yourself, then. I imagine Leliana is overjoyed.”

“I haven’t told her yet,” I admit.  “I wanted to do so in person.” I wave a hand at the gathering. “She doesn’t seem to be in attendance, however.”

The Antivan woman sighs in exasperation.  “She will be working, no doubt.  She never stops.  And since your manners seem to have been drowned in wine, my love, I fear I must intercede on my own behalf.”  She offers her hand.  “Josephine Montilyet, at your service.”

“Oh, Andraste’s blood,” Trevelyan groans.  “I’m sorry, Josie.” She kisses the Antivan’s cheek. “Let me make amends.” She clears her throat ostentatiously.  “May I present Lady Josephine Cherette Montilyet, Ambassador extraordinary and plenipotentiary of the Inquisition to the nations of Thedas, and the most beautiful, charming, and sophisticated woman I’ve ever met.  My darling Josephine, I have the honour to introduce Warden Commander Aryn Cousland...” She trails off with a chuckle as I wave my hand to dismiss my other titles.

Josephine’s smile lights her beautiful, blushing face, even as she slaps her lover across the shoulder in rebuke.  “Please forgive the Inquisitor, my Lady. She can be quite the ass when she’s drunk.”  She dips into an elegant curtsey. “It’s an honour to make your acquaintance, finally; Leliana has told me so much about you.”

I offer a polite bow, catching her fingers and raising her back to her somewhat diminutive height.  “Likewise, my Lady Josephine.  Leliana has spoken of you often with great warmth. I’m only sorry it’s taken so long for us to finally meet.  You are well, I hope?”

She exchanges a fond, forgiving glance with Trevelyan.  “Very well, thank you.  But if you have not seen Leliana yet, you must certainly hurry.  She will be in the rookery.  Find her and bring her down, please. I should very much like to see her smile for a change. ”

Trevelyan nods agreement. “This is her victory as much as anyone’s.  She should be able to truly enjoy it now. Second door on the left there, then up to the top of the tower.”

“Why is it always at the top of the tower?” I sigh theatrically, throwing a wink at Josephine, who has the grace to laugh.

“Tradition, my dear Commander,” she answers. “Where else would one look to find the maiden fair?”

“Your logic is irrefutable, my Lady.” I bow again.  “By your leave, Inquisitor, my Lady Montilyet?”

Trevelyan gives me a broad grin and a gentle push.

My mounting impatience grants me the fortitude to begin to work through the crowd, but it takes me less than four strides to run into my next obstacle; a pair of decidedly tipsy dwarf women.

 “It’s you!” one of them squeals in excitement, bouncing up to me and throwing her arms exuberantly around my thighs.  “Oh my goodness, I never imagined I’d see you again! How wonderful!”

Somewhere in the depths of my memory recognition stirs.  “Dagna?” I ask tentatively.

“You even remember my name! By the ancestors!”  Dagna’s hold tightens and she bounces up and down so much she’s in danger of upending me. The other dwarf, laughing, gets a fistful of Dagna’s tunic and yanks the over-enthusiastic smith back before I can overbalance, but not before my half-full ale tankard clatters to the floor.

“Oops! Sorry!  But… it’s just so good to see you’re still alive,” Dagna grins.  “Hey, Harding, this is my friend from the Wardens, the one who got me a place to study at Kinloch Hold.” She blushes.  “I’m sorry, I don’t even know your name.”

“You’re kidding!” Harding nearly chokes on her ale as she tries to speak and drink at the same time. Wiping her mouth on her sleeve, she shakes her head, laughing as she does so. “This is the Hero of Ferelden!”

Dagna’s eyes go very wide.  “You are?”

“I am.” I look over at Harding. “How is it that you recognise me?”

Harding blushes.  “I grew up in Redcliffe,” she explains.  “I was just a kid during the Blight.  When the undead came, my family hid out in the Chantry. I remember you and the others arriving to speak to Bann… Arl Teagan, and you bringing Bevin back. And then afterward, when it was over…” the blush spreads, “you and King Alistair played musical statues with all the children on the lakeshore, kept us busy while the grown-ups wrapped the bodies for burial. Your mabari kept knocking everyone over.”

I laugh as I recall the moment; _Alistair and I, ganged up on by a small army of exuberant urchins convinced that we’re cheating. Rufus bowling over anyone who weighs less than him, tormenting his victims with wet, slobbery licks. Leliana perched on the jetty with her lute, her hair flaming in the bright sunshine, her music and her voice soaring over the water in song_. “That’s right. Leliana played the lute for us, didn’t she?” I look more closely at the dwarf.  “I _do_ remember you.  You were the one that tripped me into the lake, weren’t you?” _Leliana, crying with laughter, nearly dropping her lute into the lake as I emerge from the water, covered from head to toe with blue algae, only to be knocked right back in by my joyfully boisterous war hound._

Harding’ blush intensifies to a furious shade of purple, and I pat her shoulder reassuringly. “I never did catch your name.  Thank you for reminding me. That was a good day, one of the few days of the Blight that I truly treasure the memory of. It’s good to see both of you again. I’m glad you played a part in this victory.”

Dagna beams at me, and Harding offers a bashful smile.  “Sister Leliana’s in the rookery,” she offers. “It’s good to see you again, too.”

I step carefully around Dagna and resume my course. I’m just ten blighted steps from the door when a _very_ familiar voice stops me. “Ah, me, a little lost Warden. Looking for your sly little songbird, perchance?”

I turn, offering a genuine smile, my pleasure at seeing this woman again heartfelt.  “I wondered if I would find you here.  It’s good to see you, Morrigan.”

Morrigan inclines her head, gracefully accepting the compliment. “Thank you. ‘Tis likewise good to see you.

“You look well.” She looks magnificent, clad in a deep purple formal gown that would easily grace the high court in Val Royeaux.  The sneaky witch-thief is much changed, it seems.

“And you…” She considers me for a moment with pursed lips, “have looked better.”

I chuckle.  “I know. Skulking around underground is apparently not all that healthy if you’re not a dwarf.”

“Indeed.” The witch smiles wryly as she surveys the festivities.  “I see Leliana has absented herself, as usual.  While her newfound seriousness makes her presence far easier on one’s nerves – and ears – I must admit that it does _not_ suit her.” She flicks a seemingly disdainful glance over me, but I can see her pleasure behind it.  “I imagine you will do everything in your power to help her revert to more irritating behaviour?”

“I don’t think that’s exactly how I would describe it, but yes,” I agree. “That’s the aim.”

Morrigan affects a despairing groan.  “Ugh. Well, at least this time there are stout walls between us instead of canvas, and I may be assured of an uninterrupted rest.”

“You don’t fool me even a little, Morrigan,” I chide with a grin, and to my surprise, she reaches out and hugs me.

“There’s so much I should like to tell you, my friend, so much that your courage and trust has enabled me to do,” she whispers in my ear.  “Will you speak with me, privately, sometime soon?”

“Of course,” I nod.  “But you realise I may be tied up for a while first.”

“I do _not_ wish to hear the sordid details of your mating rituals.” Morrigan heaves an ostentatious sigh. “Just be sure not to make the knots too tight, and change positions frequently to avoid injury.”

“I’ll try to remember that,” I chuckle, then I take a deep breath, assessing the route to the door and seeing at least two people who know me or can infer who I am between the portal and my current position. “Morrigan, could you do something for me?”

“That depends.”

“Could you make sure I get to the stairs without anyone else interrupting me?”

Morrigan follows my gaze, then chuckles wickedly.  “With magic, all things are possible.” She gestures, her hand glowing briefly with actinic blue light.  “There. The spell will wear off within a few minutes.  What you do with that time is entirely up to you.”

“Thank you.” Grinning a farewell, I walk confidently across the hall. No one stops me, and I slip into the room at the base of the tower with a relieved sigh.

My relief, however, is short-lived. There’s someone in the room, a blonde boy sitting cross-legged on a desk, face partly shadowed by a floppy hat. “You’re glowing,” he says as he stares straight at me.

“I am?” He must be another mage.

“Yes.  It’s Morrigan’s magic.  Amethyst and obsidian, like her aura.”

 “You can… see auras?” I ask uncertainly.

“Yes.  The Inquisitor is sky blue and aurum, the Seeker is white and dragonbone, and the Left Hand is crimson and gold…” He looks at me soulfully. “She hurts,” he says quietly. “She misses someone.”

“I know.”

His gaze sharpens, becomes piercing. I fancy for a moment that he’s looking inside me.  “ _You_ ,” he says, his face brightening.  “ _You’re_ the one she yearns for. Grey and silverite.”

“How could you know that?”

He ignores the question, continuing to study me for a few seconds, then smiles happily.  “I like you,” he says shyly.  “You’re kind. Loving. Lionhearted. You match her, though few here see her truly.  She hides herself well.”

“That she does,” I agree. 

The boy reaches out, touches my face, then bounces to his feet.  “She’ll be so happy.  No need to put honey in her wine any longer. Go to her quickly. The magic wanes.” And with that, he skips past me, back toward the party.

Nonplussed, I walk quietly up the stairs, through the deserted library and up again to the rookery. Morrigan’s enchantment masks my presence even from the birds, and I wonder again how the boy downstairs noticed me. But as I clear the top of the stairs and round the support post, the sight of my love drives all other considerations from my head.

Leliana sits at a plain wooden table, head bowed over whatever missive she’s working on, hood shadowing her face.  I lean against the nearby post, fold my arms, and just watch her, enjoying the opportunity to simply appreciate her presence.

Maker, she’s beautiful.  There’s a quality of stillness, a poise about her when she’s focused that fascinates me. When first we met, it was rare to see, only manifesting in battle. At other times she was so vibrant and lively, so full of hope and kindness.  My wounded, bereft spirit had desperately needed solace, and I’d found it in her. She had lifted me from my grief with her laughter and her songs, calmed my fears with her soft voice and gentle touches…

_I wake up screaming, the Archdemon’s shriek echoing over and over in my mind.  Gasping, sobbing, I try to sit up, but a soft embrace restrains me.  “Shhh, it’s all right, cherie,” a silken, soothing voice comforts me. “I’m here.” She’s here. I’m safe. Relaxing, I let the warmth of her body and presence calm me as I slide back into sleep, the only thing I can hear now the lullaby she’s begun to sing._

She brightened my days with her simple presence and grace.  In a time when my world had been turned to ash, she was the one thing I came to want to live for, the one soul that saved me from existing simply for vengeance.

She looks so sad now, labouring in her lonely eyrie.  Sera’s words flit across my mind – _no one else wants to go near her –_ and they make me ache with pity. Bull’s revelation that she has become more approachable recently is scant redress – I want all the world to understand how loving, carefree, and kind my bard can be. That the people of this bold, brave movement are afraid of her is beyond my comprehension, and breaks my heart into the bargain.

_“Oh! It’s one of those subterranean bunny pigs! Oooh, look at him!” Leliana practically squeals, delighted, as she drops to her knees.  “Come here, you,” she entreats the nug, running her fingers lightly down its back._

_“Careful,” I advise, unable to restrain my smile. “He nips.” In the background, I hear Morrigan snort in disgust, and Oghren cackling like a lunatic, but I pay them no mind.  All I’m concerned with is Leliana’s reaction._

_“He’s probably just hungry,” the bard defends her new pet, giggling as the nug pushes its wet, whiskery nose against her bare lower thigh. “Ooh, he’s snuffling me!” She strokes the nug’s ears, talking to it in a baby voice as she does with Rufus; curiosity piqued, my mabari lopes over to investigate, and I shoo him away._

_“It’s not for you, boy,” I tell him sternly.  “We’ll go hunt some rabbits later, all right?”_

_He whines, lays back his ears, and slinks over to Sten with calculated mournfulness; he knows the qunari is always good for a crunch or two._

_Leliana gets to her feet, grinning from ear to ear. I’ve never seen anyone so overjoyed by a gift in my life. “Thank you so much,” she says, throwing her arms around me and kissing my cheek.  “You’ve made my day.”_

_I’m enchanted._

In those few months where there were no cares laid upon her, in spite of the terrible danger we were constantly in, she was happy. But she let herself fall in love, deeply and without condition, and love, for my poor Leliana, has ever ended in pain. Everyone she has ever loved has left her or betrayed her. Her mother and Cecilie, both gone too early to their graves. Justinia, murdered. I abandoned her. No matter that it was for the best of intentions, spurred by my desire to find a happy ending for both of us: the desertion still hurt her.  The Maker has ever rewarded her faith and her sacrifices with loneliness and grief. And Marjolaine… Marjolaine almost destroyed her, twice, and her death, even as an enemy, was no easier for Leliana to bear…

 

_Marjolaine offers me a sultry smile. “If I were you, I would believe nothing she says, not a one.  You look at her and you see a simple girl, a… friend.” There’s a vile insinuation in the bardmaster’s voice, and I feel the first flush of anger heat my cheeks. “Trusting, and…warm,” Marjolaine leers. “It is… an act.”_

_“I am not you, Marjolaine.” Leliana’s voice trembles with repressed emotion. “I left because I did not want to become you.”_

_“Oh, but you are me,” Marjolaine purrs.  “You cannot escape it.  No one will understand you the way I do, because we are one and the same.”_

_Leliana recoils, guilt suffusing her features._

_“Do you know why you were a master manipulator Leliana?” the older woman prods, a cruel, vulpine smile stretching her lips. “It is because you enjoyed the game – you revelled in the power it gave you. You cannot change or deny this. And now you have wrapped this poor fool, this simple hero, round your little finger. Does this warrior child believe you love her, Leliana?  That your heart flutters in your pale breast only for her? That her clumsy, unskilled hands on your womanly flesh quicken you more than any other’s ever have? How touching. How romantic.” A peal of cynical laughter cascades from the bardmaster’s lips, her eyes glittering with malice as she watches the blood drain from Leliana’s face, the barb sliding deep beneath her guard._

_Wounded and at bay, Leliana’s ocean-deep eyes seek mine, abject with grief, fear, and crippling doubt.  Marjolaine’s tactics are brutally effective; she knows Leliana well. But for all that, she’s mischaracterized our relationship.  It isn’t yet what she assumes.  Though Maker, I think I want it to be._

_“Aryn,” Leliana begs fearfully, “I….”_

_I lock my eyes to hers, will her to understand, to trust me as I trust her. I try to pour all of my affection, my faith, my confidence into my gaze as I look back steadily, assuredly. Then I turn to the bardmaster, smirking cockily as I rest my hand on my sword hilt. “I trust Leliana,” I declare with all of my conviction, “and nothing you say will change that.” Beside me, Alistair tenses, prepared to move with me.  I can’t see Wynne, but I know she’s ready; the hairs on the back of my neck are prickling._

_Hope and gratitude flare in Leliana’s eyes. “Thank you,” she whispers, then, confidence restored, she confronts her tormentor, thrusting out her jaw. I let my smile broaden; I recognize that look, and I’ve never seen her fail to get her way when she deploys it.  “You will not threaten me, or my friends again, Marjolaine. I want you out of my life.  Forever.”_

_Marjolaine’s mask finally slips, hatred twisting her face into an ugly rictus. “I made you, Leliana,” she snarls. “I can destroy you just as easily.”_

_I’m ready.  As Marjolaine strikes, I lunge in front of Leliana.  The bardmaster’s poniard, driven with force enough to puncture Leliana’s light leather armour, glances off the angled plane of my breastplate, squealing as it scrapes impotently across the burnished red steel.  Throwing my elbow up, I knock the dagger from her grasp, but Maker only knows how many more she has. I must be swift – if Marjolaine has reflexes as quick as Leliana’s, I can’t allow her time to recover.  Not bothering to draw my sword, I bash my shield against her arm to open her guard, then snap a punch to her face.  The blow, augmented by my gauntlet, crushes her nose, staggers her back with a scream of rage and pain. Stooping, I snatch up her dagger and ram it as hard as I can into her eye. She collapses, instantly unstrung, her shriek cutting off abruptly._

_I twist round, leading with my shield, reaching for my sword hilt, but Leliana, Alistair and Wynne have already dispatched the ambush.  Leliana drops her knives, the clang of steel on stone loud in the sudden stillness, gaze riveted to Marjolaine’s body. “It’s over. She’s… dead,” she says, sounding almost surprised. “She’s dead… because of me.”_

_“Not because of you,” I object emphatically._

_She turns, meets my gaze, her sapphire eyes awash with grief and uncertainty. “I… I need some time to myself, Aryn. Please? We’ll talk later.” It’s a promise, not a brush-off, and as I nod, she reaches up to caress my cheek with her thumb, then turns back to her contemplation of the body on the floor._

_She does not return to camp till long after dark, till all save Shale and I have sought their blankets; I’m too worried for Leliana, and the golem takes the watch every night now, as she requires no rest. I sit by the fire before the bard’s tent, polishing the scratch out of my breastplate to pass the time; I don’t want her to be reminded of what happened every time she looks at me._

_“It’s late,” she says quietly when she finally arrives, setting the saddlebags and weapons she’s carrying down with a relieved sigh._

_“I couldn’t sleep,” I shrug, looking up at her as I set my armour aside.  “Not without knowing you were safe.”_

_Leliana drops to her knees in front of me, rests her forearms on my thighs and looks up at me with a pained, wondering smile.  “I do not deserve this.  I do not deserve you,” she says softly.  “You are such a good, kind person, and I…  What you learned today…”_

_“Changes nothing,” I assure her.  “I meant what I said to her. I trust you.” I reach out to rest my hand against her cheek, and she nuzzles into the touch, her eyes fluttering closed for a brief second as she sighs._

_“Then I am truly blessed,” she replies, shifting around to sit next to me, resting her head on my shoulder. “Thank you, Aryn.”_

_“My pleasure.” I drape my arm around her, squeeze her lightly, and she shudders, a sob bubbling up. Instinctively, I draw her onto my lap and she throws her arms around my neck. I wrap her up in a hug, and hold her until her grief drains, her body relaxes, and she falls asleep in my arms._

 

I’d carried her to her tent, fallen asleep still holding her, and it was the first time since that fateful night in Highever that I’d slept without dreaming. It was the night I realized I was totally, utterly, irrevocably in love with my beautiful bard.

As I look at her now, my whole being seems to resonate with joy. Melancholy as she appears, just being in the same room lifts my spirits, and the knowledge that my presence will be enough to make her happy amplifies my feelings.

A cool sensation washes over me, and the raven in the nearest cage fusses, flapping its wings in alarm at my presence.  Morrigan’s spell is exhausted. She’ll notice me at any second.

I’ve imagined this reunion in a thousand daydreams, a thousand different scenarios, and the enormity of it rushes in, dangerously close to overwhelming me.  In a desperate attempt to stave off the building paralysis that will leave me stuttering like a fool if she looks up, I take a deep breath and adopt my best impression of Zevran’s impish humour.

“So what are you doing hiding up here? Couldn’t you find a suitable pair of shoes for such a momentous occasion?”

Leliana starts, knocking her ink pot across her carefully scribed correspondence, and as her wide-eyed gaze settles on me a riot of emotions scroll across her features; alarm, confusion, comprehension, and then, slowly, finally, joy.  A smile kindles at the corner of her mouth, igniting as she shoves her chair back and launches herself at me. “Aryn!” I brace myself, catch her, and swing her off her feet, thrilled by the weight of her body in my arms.

As I set her down she cups my face between her hands, gaze searching my expression anxiously.  “Maker, I don’t know if I dare believe this. Tell me… tell me I’m not dreaming, _mon coeur_.”

“You’re not dreaming.” I rest my hands against her waist. “And neither am I.”

She kisses me, her mouth hot and demanding, and my back thumps into the post as she leans into me. Closing my eyes, I reciprocate, my tongue duelling with hers until neither of us can breathe.

“You found it, no?” she queries huskily, staring hopefully into my eyes.  “It’s done?”

“It’s done. I’m free,” I affirm, laughing as a huge smile breaks over her flawless features.  She throws herself back into my arms and showers me with kisses.

“I missed you, my love,” she whispers between kisses.  “These past… few months have… been worse… than torture.  Ever since I saw you… I’ve been waiting. Hoping.”

“Going back to that damn hole in the ground after seeing you…” I pull her closer, trying to brand the feel of her presence into my awareness. “Maker’s grace, I almost couldn’t do it.”  I place a kiss in the middle of her forehead, feeling tears threaten.  “I’m so sorry, Leliana.”

“Hush,” she chides gently.  “We’ve been over this, no?  It’s in the past.  What matters is now, and the future.  You’re here, you’re with me, and that’s all I care about.” A momentary uncertainty knits a frown into her brow.  “You _are_ staying this time, yes?”

“I am,” I assure her.  “If you’ll have me?”

She smirks, confidence bolstered by my guarantee.  “Oh, I’ll have you, dear heart. In as many ways as I can.” She nips at my lip with her teeth, slides her knee between my thighs. “Starting right now.”

Arousal hammers into me like a charging bronto, floods every corner of my senses.  “Maker, Leliana, I...”

“Shhh,” she cuts me off again, smiling a slightly predatory smile as she shakes off her gauntlets and runs her hands up into my hair. She shoves me back against the post as she closes in and demands another feral, combative kiss.

Touch, taste, smell, sight, hearing. All of my senses are filled with her presence amid the whirling maelstrom of feelings her kiss provokes. Our tryst in the Chantry is months gone, our last real lovemaking years past. The memories that have sustained me are a pale wisp, a guttering candle next to the inferno of her passionate presence, and _oh, Maker, I want her..._  

 Disoriented momentarily by my fast-rising desire, it takes a little time for me to realise her hands are undoing my belt, pulling loose the lacing of my breeches.  Her fingers burrow beneath my smallclothes, and alight assertively upon my sex. “Andraste’s blood, Leliana,” I gasp plaintively, shivering, my knees almost buckling at the sensation of her sensual caress “I can’t…”

It’s been too long. Raw instinct uncouples my body from conscious command. My hips thrust helplessly into her hand, seeking her most intimate of touches, tension pulling the muscles of my belly almost painfully tight.

“It’s all right,” Leliana breathes in my ear, nipping at the lobe as she sheathes her fingers inside me, runs her free hand under my tunic to grasp my hip, “just let yourself feel.”

I’m overwhelmed, already, though she’s barely begun. It’s been years since Leliana has been able to touch me, years where abstinence from all pleasures has been the safest course.  Books, the Architect’s archaic and priceless library, have been my only vice. Even my scant few mouthfuls of ale downstairs have had a noticeable effect, taking the whetted edge off my reflexes and reactions. It’s all I can do to stay standing under her ministrations, clinging to her desperately as she works her fingers within me in a practiced, familiar rhythm.  I pull her hood off, releasing her vibrant hair, and bury my face in her neck, revelling in the warmth of her skin, her closeness, her scent. She doesn’t tease, doesn’t draw things out. Recognising my abject need, she deploys all of her skill, all of her wicked fluency with my body, and before I can even draw breath to beg, my climax catches me and the world goes white for a brief, eternal moment. A hoarse, stuttering cry tears from me, drowned out by the sudden squawking of the ravens as the noise startles them.

Trembling, weak-kneed as a new-born foal, I hold Leliana close, leaning my weight on her slender shoulders as I recover my senses.  “ _Je t’aime_ ,” she breathes, nibbling gently at the shell of my ear.

“I love you too, _mon coeur_ ,” I whisper back. She withdraws her hand and busies herself with re-fastening my clothing, pressing gentle kisses to my neck all the while.  I’ve no doubt she can feel my heartbeat thundering beneath her lips.

“Welcome home,” she murmurs, her tone husky, and as she draws back a little, I can see the flame of her desire dancing in the sapphire depths of her eyes.

“Thank you,” I reply, running my thumb along her lips as she smooths my tunic down and buckles my belt. “I’m sorry I ruined your letter.”

“I’m not,” she shrugs.  “Having you here means far more than me than my work.”

I smile.  “I’m given to understand from some of the conversations I had downstairs that such a thing is wholly unbelievable.  And your absence from the victory party is… conspicuous.”

“I’d wager no one even missed me,” she challenges, a flicker of resignation in her eyes.

“They…” I flounder for a reason, any reason, and she rests her fingers against my lips.

“I brought it upon myself, I know that,” she acknowledges.  “No point in crying over it now.”

“They don’t really know you, do they?” I ask.  “Except for Cassandra, and Josephine. You show them only the bard, the spy, the courtier.”

“I show them what I must, and no more,” she agrees sadly. “In part because the position of spymaster demands a little fear. And in part because I could not bear for them to see me bleed.  Not even Cassandra or Josie. You are the only one to whom I dare to entrust my heart, Aryn.”

I tuck her braid tenderly behind her ear. “Your heart is safe with me, always. I would simply have others know the Leliana that I love.” I wink at her.  “Anyway, your friend Lady Montilyet was adamant that I should come and fetch you.  Your Inquisitor seems quite taken with her.”

“She is.”

“And rightly so – Josephine certainly is beautiful, and seems utterly charming.”

Leliana smiles fondly.  “She’s a treasure.” She looks me up and down with a mildly critical expression.  “And she’s presentable, too, unlike some people.”

“Says the woman wearing armour and a hood in her own keep,” I retort with a grin.  “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”

Leliana plucks critically at the deep blue velveteen tunic.  “It’s a _little_ old-fashioned. And a little tight, though that _does_ mean it shows off your bosom magnificently.” She gives me a playful squeeze.

“It was the only one I could find in all of Orzammar’s markets that came close to fitting me. Maker only knows how long it was lying on the shelf down there. It’s probably a priceless heirloom.”

She runs her fingers up and over my collar, then round to the back of my neck to dig into my hair.  “Also, you do rather look like you cut your hair yourself in the dark.”

“That’s because I did,” I point out. “Not many Orlesian stylists open for business in the Deep Roads. It was a treat if Sigrun was around to do it for me.”

“Couldn’t you have asked Avernus?” I don’t reply, holding her gaze for a moment, then she chuckles wryly.  “No, I suppose not.”

“You could lend me your hood, if my appearance shames you so.”

“No. I’ve a much better idea,” Leliana decides, the desire in her eyes flaming more forcefully now. “Could I conceivably persuade you to forsake the party entirely?”

I nod emphatically, perhaps too eagerly. “I wasn’t looking forward to going back down.  Too many people.” I feel my shoulders tighten with unwanted tension as I remember the babble, the unintentional brush of arms against me, the constant, flickering movement in my peripheral vision, the watching eyes boring into my back.  “I’m not used to crowds.” An involuntary shudder rolls through me, and she seizes my hand, kisses my fingers.

“My poor warden,” she sympathises.  “I’m sorry, I should have thought of that.”

“It’s all right. Besides,” I smirk as I recall some of the gatherings we attended in Orlais, “it’s not a real party, not by your standards.  No smallclothes anywhere in sight.”

Leliana flashes me a return grin that’s fully, openly salacious. “Be careful what you wish for. The night is young, still.” She laughs and tightens her grip, pulling me forward. “Come, then.  We will go someplace more private. You are all mine, at last, and I do not wish to share you.”

She leads me downstairs, through the library and around an upper balcony of the great hall that is clear of anyone except sentries.  Laughter and music float up from below, accompanying us through the door at the far side and into the crisp evening. We follow the keep wall until we reach a door at the corner of the walkway. Leliana unlocks it, and ushers me inside.

Her bedchamber is spartan, almost soulless; the only indication that anyone even inhabits the space is a small shrine to Andraste, an empty armour stand, and, carefully propped in the corner, an exquisitely carved dragonthorn longbow, the craftsmanship and decoration unmistakeably Dalish. Falon’Din’s Reach, Master Varathorn had named it after we’d recovered it from the dragon’s hoard in the Brecilian ruins.  He’d declared it the finest bow he’d ever handled, and Leliana had badgered him about the story behind the name until he’d surrendered the information.  That night, at her behest, I chopped up the recurve taken from Marjolaine’s gear, held her tightly as she threw the pieces into the fire, weeping uncontrollably, then walked with her to a deserted clearing in the woods where we’d made love under the stars.

She smiles as she sees what I’m looking at.  “I’ve never found a weapon to surpass it,” she says, “though it has not seen as much action as it used to in recent months.”

“I was remembering the night we acquired it,” I admit, turning to face her.  “It sticks in my memory rather vividly, for some reason.”

Leliana’s smile turns distinctly sultry. “I can’t imagine why.”

“Something about how lovely you are when you’re naked in the moonlight, totally lost in pleasure,” I offer, trying very hard to keep a grip on my nonchalance even though the memory of her spread beneath me has my pulse racing and my mouth dry.  “If I had to guess.”

She advances toward me, her eyes darkened to midnight, reaching up to lace her fingers at the back of my neck.  I lower my head until our foreheads touch. “And are you? Guessing?” she breathes.

“No,” I whisper.  “I’m absolutely certain.” And I touch my lips to hers.

Her hands tighten and she pulls herself closer. I rest my palm against her chest, stopping her gently, and reach for the buckles that secure her surcoat.

“You’re _very_ keen,” Leliana murmurs, amused.

“I am,” I agree as I unpin the Inquisition sigil on her chest. “Last time,” Maker, the memory of her lying prostrate and pleading on the Chantry altar is branded behind my eyelids, “I couldn’t feel you.  My armour was in the way.” I slide the straps loose of the buckles. “I’ve missed the feeling of your body in my arms, how warm you are, how soft.” The armour comes loose, and she shrugs out of it.  “Let me hold you close,” I beseech her, turning my attention to the laces of her leather jack.  She cups my face in her hands, and the warmth of her fingers seems to almost burn into my skin as she steals a kiss.

The laces come free, and I push the jack from her shoulders, sliding the heavy leather down her arms to drop in a heap atop her mail. She steps in, the swell of her breasts pressing into me, the heat of her body bleeding through her shirt and my tunic, and pushes me down on the bed.

Her boots go next, then her breeches as she strips with graceful efficiency, revealing her long, slender legs and their perfect pale skin. As she slips off her shirt, my breath catches in my throat and my heart skips. Andraste’s holy grace, she is so very beautiful. Every last inch of her. The need to touch her is making my fingers ache. “Leliana,” I whisper reverently.  “You’re exquisite.”

She smiles at my words, but her smile is timid, and her gaze fixes firmly to the floor even as she drops the shirt. Every line of her posture proclaims a sudden shyness, a nervous vulnerability. Those familiar with her profession would decry this as a cynical pretence, but I know better.  I know how much it costs her to stand before me, before anyone, unclothed, the damage that shames her laid bare to the world, her constant reminder of the price of loving unwisely. Opening my arms, I beckon her closer, drawing her in till she stands between my legs and I can rest my cheek against the velvet softness of her belly. Her fingers twine in my hair as I place my hands at her waist, feeling the rough edges of scar tissue beneath my fingertips, and drop a kiss against the protrusion of her hipbone, just beneath the three long, wicked scars that reach round from her back.  “You’re beautiful, Leliana,” I assure her, looking up past her cloth-bound breasts, meeting her gaze raptly. “So very beautiful,” I repeat, nodding slightly.  “Turn around.”

She hesitates, and a memory surfaces…

 

_I lie flat on back, feeling my heart pound against my ribs, trying to catch my breath as Leliana watches me intently.  “Maker,” I whisper, “I…”_

_“Shhh,” she says softly, smoothing my hair.  “I know. It’s all right. It was your first time, just take a moment to savour it.” She leans down to kiss me, a gentle caress of her lips against mine.  “Thank you for giving me such a wonderful gift.”_

_“I don’t recall doing much giving,” I manage to joke, stifling a groan at the throbbing recollection of her fingers sliding inside me, coaxing pleasure from me that I had never imagined._

_“You gave me yourself,” she clarifies, her hand tracing down my neck and across my collarbone, “without condition or restraint. And it was beautiful.  You’re beautiful.”_

_“So are you.”  I sit up, cup her face in my hands and, daring greatly, kiss her, drawing her still-clothed body against mine. Her arms snake around my neck and she clings to me as I wrap her up in my embrace.  “I want to touch you,” I confess, a whisper in her ear, blushing even as the words leave my lips. She brought me such ecstasy; I want to return the compliment, to learn how to give her such pleasure in return. I want to undress her, explore her body, feel the warmth of her skin. I want her to cry my name the way I cried hers._

_She shakes her head, soothes the refusal with a kiss. “It’s not necessary. I enjoyed pleasing you, showing you what your body wanted. You don’t have to…”_

_“But I want to, Leliana,” I cut her off.  “I want to learn to please you too.” She tenses, and an unnerving thought strikes. “Don’t you want me to?” I lower my eyes, study the bedroll beneath us, a cold little spike of fear and rejection piercing my confusion. “Would it be so bad?” Marjolaine’s poisonous words on my inexperience echo in my mind, amplifying my self-doubt, and all of a sudden I’ve never felt quite so inadequate. “I know I am… unskilled, but I can learn, if you’ll guide me. And I’d be gentle, I promise.”_

_“Oh, Aryn… my dear one…please.” She takes my chin in her finger and thumb and forces me to meet her gaze. She’s biting her lip, and there are tears in her eyes.  “Do not mistake me. I want this, I do. My body, it aches for your touch, you see?” She moves my hand to her breast, and I can feel the hard point of her nipple beneath the cloth of her shirt. “I want you to make love to me, I know you will bring me great pleasure…” She takes a shaky breath, and I realise she’s trembling in my arms, pale, uncertain, all of her humour and happiness gone._

_She’s… frightened. Of me?_

_“Maker, I never thought this would be so hard,” she murmurs, visibly overcome with emotion. “I… I told you… after Marjolaine betrayed me, they tortured me… They did unspeakable things…”_

_I nod, rocking her gently, trying to offer comfort, fighting down the sudden, impotent charge of fury that makes me want to kill Marjolaine all over again. Anger can have no place here, while she is frightened and upset.  “It’s all right, Leliana… you can tell me.”  I kiss her forehead. I’m desperate to reassure the beautiful, wounded woman in my arms, but I have no idea how.  “I love you, I swear to the Maker.” It’s the only thing I can think of to say._

_“Oh, dear heart,” a sob cracks her voice, “I know.  And I love you too.  I’m… they left scars, Aryn.  I’m marked, forever, by what they did to me.”  She trails her fingers down my shoulder. “And I’m afraid.”_

_I pull back a little so I can look at her. “Please don’t be afraid of me,” I beg.  “I would never hurt you.”_

_“I don’t want to be… I thought I could control it,” she admits miserably, “but it’s not something I can simply wish away. I have shared my body with no one since that day.  In the Chantry, in the dormitory, when the others saw, they flinched away, looked at me with such revulsion…” she bites her lip again, drawing blood this time. “I’m sorry, my beautiful warden, I know you wouldn’t be like them, but…”_

_I place my fingers against her lips.  “Then let me see,” I implore, blotting the cut gently with my thumb.  “Please, Leliana.  Trust me. I love you. And I won’t lay a finger upon you unless you permit. If all you want is for me to hold you, then that is enough for me.” I settle back on my heels, fold my hands in my lap, ceding her total control.  “What is your wish?”_

_She swallows hard, her eyes shining with emotion, and raises her arms.  “Undress me. Please,” she whispers…_

 

“Aryn?” Leliana’s voice, edged with the same anxious uncertainty, draws me back to the present. She’s looking down at me, and I plant another kiss on her belly, then run my lips along the ridge of the lowest scar, provoking a tiny, barely audible sigh. 

“Sorry, love.  Turn around,” I repeat, twisting her hips, and she obeys.

Her back is a patchwork of almost solid scar tissue, the weals of whip cuts interspersed with burns and abrasions. There is a small, solitary island of unmarked skin on her right shoulder blade, and somehow the little patch of perfection amplifies the damage that mars the rest of her back. I stretch up and run the tips of my fingers from her shoulders to the curve of her buttocks, one hand to either side of her spine, remembering each welt, each graze, each point at which she is sensitive to touch.  She shivers like a spooked horse, and draws in a breath with a hiss.  Shifting my feet, I work my legs between hers, then tug her down onto my lap, dragging the tip of my tongue round the edge of the flawless spot on her shoulder as I repeat the caress.  She trembles again, the breath sighing out of her softly as I reach around to untuck the end of the cloth that holds her breasts, unwinding it slowly, chasing the fabric I peel back with kisses.  When the cloth falls away, I draw her back against me, run my fingers up over her taut abdomen and cup her warm, soft breasts, kissing my way languidly up the line of her shoulder and neck to nuzzle just below her jaw.  Maker, she feels so good beneath my hands, beneath my lips. Brushing my thumbs over her nipples, I smile in satisfaction as she tips her head back against my shoulder, her breath sighing from her in a sensual, pleasured whisper.

“ _Je t’aime_ ,” I murmur, nipping lightly at her earlobe, breathing in the clean scents of her hair and Andraste’s Grace, kneading her breasts lightly as I tease her nipples to full arousal.

“Oh Maker,” she moans softly, arching back against me, “ohhh, that feels wonderful.”

She lets me touch and explore for a while, then she places her hands over mine as though to stop me. “No,” I protest, “let me do this. Let me worship you as you deserve.”

“But I want to feel your skin against mine,” she implores me.  “It’s been so long.  Please, my love, let’s enjoy this together.” She stands up, turns to face me, and tugs at the hem of my tunic.  I lift my arms, and she pulls the garment clear.  I kick off my boots and tug my breeches down while she unwinds my breastband, and within moments, I am as exposed as she. Her eyes rove over me, taking inventory of new scarring and the altered shape of my body; living in armour and on field rations for years has hardened me, added muscle bulk in some places and planed off some of the softer curves I possessed when I was younger. “I always forget that you’ve changed,” she murmurs, stroking her hands from my collarbone to my navel.

“For the worse?” I joke, and she flicks my nipple punitively; the shock of arousal it provokes drives a gasp from me.

“Of course not.  Maker, you were so young.” She settles beside me, sliding her fingers under my smallclothes and dragging them down my legs. “So innocent. I often felt as though I was corrupting you.”

I reciprocate her actions, relieving her of her underwear. “I’m glad you did.  I rather enjoyed you having your wicked Orlesian way with me.”

“Oh, you think me wicked, do you?” she purrs, her voice suddenly dark and husky with the promise of iniquity. I run my hand up her leg to the warmth between her thighs, curling my fingers gently in the small thatch of fiery hair that guards her, and she arches into the touch with a whimper.

“Utterly sinful,” I confirm, rolling her to her back as I slip my fingers down into her folds, exploring her intimacy, revelling in the feel of her silken, aroused flesh.  She hisses and arches her back, fingers locking against my shoulder blades.  “You are the source of all my impure thoughts,” I continue, shifting so that my body covers hers, giving her the skin-to-skin contact she desires. “Every lustful imagining, every carnal desire, every temptation of the flesh.” I punctuate my list by stroking my thumb against the delicate bud of her sex, and she shudders with each caress. “Bless me, Sister,” I whisper in her ear, “for I have sinned. Will you hear my confession?”

“Maker,” Leliana gasps, hips canting upwards, nails digging into my back, “by your grace and in the name of your beloved Proph…ah… Prophet, hear now the confession of this, your penitent ch-child.  Grant her your mercy, and… oh, for the love of Andraste, Aryn, please…” she pulls my head level with hers, locks her lips to mine in a bruising kiss that sucks all the air from my lungs.

“It’s all right,” I pant as we break, as I slip my fingers gently inside her, “I’m not the… slightest bit… penitent… anyway.”  I work my lips down to her breast, settle into the rhythm of strokes I remember her enjoying best, and give myself over to my desire to bring her ecstasy. “In my heart there burns an unquenchable flame,” I paraphrase the chant as she groans beneath me, “all-consuming and never satisfied. I love you, Leliana.” I close my lips around her breast, scrape my teeth gently against her nipple, curl my fingers inside her, and she peaks, crying my name over and over as she shudders against me.  I hold her close as she shivers through the tail of her climax, and when she finally opens her eyes, they are burnished with tears of joy.

“You are the best thing that has ever happened to me,” she says, an echo of my words of ten years past, laying her hand against my face. “My dearest friend, and my love.”

Abruptly, the sheer unlikelihood of this perfect moment crashes in on me. After all this time, all the suffering we have both endured, have we truly, _finally_ , overcome every obstacle to be reunited? Holding her close, surrounded by her loving presence, I can barely believe it. There have been times when I’ve been sure I could never have this again, that we would grow so far apart that our connection would rupture. There have been times I’ve sat alone in the dark, surrounded by nothing but enemies, miserably lonely and despairing of ever laying eyes on her again.  There have been times I’ve dreamed of returning, only to find her unattainable, gone to serve her higher calling; or worse, in the arms of another, one who will not abandon her as I have, one who truly deserves her. There have been times, too many by far, that I’ve lain dying…

 

_The world is a fiery maelstrom of pain, red and black flickering across my vision. My blood is pumping slowly between my fingers as I try to hold it back, but I’m losing the battle.  The black’s getting more prevalent. I try to summon the will to fight it. I don’t… I don’t want to die. I want to go home, to Leliana…_

_“Aryn?” There’s a rattle of metal next to my ear. “Shit… hang on, boss.  Stay with me!” Thick, stubby, competent fingers wrap around my wrist, pull my hand away from my wound.  “Aw, shit, shit, shit!  Avernus!  Avernus, get your undead ass over here now, she’s bleeding out!”  The powerful fingers press down, and the sharp spike of agony restores some clarity._

_“Sig…Sigrun?”_

_“I’m here, yeah.  You great stone-blind lummox, what the hell were you thinking, charging them like that?  Ah, shit … don’t talk.  Save your strength. Avernus is coming.”_

_“Sig…” it’s getting too hard to move my tongue, “will you…tell Leliana…I loved her? And… I’m sorry.”_

_“I’m not telling her anything, you’ll tell her your damn self. Don’t you bloody well dare die on me and leave me down here alone with these bastards.”  The dwarf’s voice is thick with tears.  “Avernus!” she screams._

_The world blacks out._

 

Juxtaposed as it is against the perfection of the present, the pain of the memory snaps the reins of my self-control, and my long-banked terror overwhelms me, bitter fear tearing at my euphoria, anguish clawing at my ecstasy, indivisible from one another. A wrenching sob rips loose from my chest, then another, then another. I’m so afraid that this cannot last.  It’s been taken from me before. I’m not strong enough to lose her again.

“Aryn?  Aryn, my love, please, don’t cry,” Leliana begs, alarmed by my sudden distress.  “I’m here.  I’m here.”

She’s here.  She’s real. She’s mine. _Thank the Maker_. My anguish transmutes a little, and I weep for both joy and grief, my tears falling like rain over Leliana’s breasts and face. She kisses me tenderly, her lips spattered with saltwater; she holds me close as she rolls us over, switches our positions, assumes command.  She slides her fingers within me in a gentle, coaxing rhythm, just as she did when she claimed me for her own that first time, and as she lifts me once more into ecstasy, I throw my arms around her and hang on for dear life.  “Please… don’t ever let me go, Leliana.” I plead brokenly.

“Never,” Leliana swears ardently, sealing her vow with a kiss to my temple. 

As my climax subsides, we lie in sated silence for a while, entwined in one another until the chill of the night begins to bite at our cooling skin. Leliana rises, stirs up the fire and adds a few fresh logs, then chivvies me off the bed so she can peel back the blankets.  “Get in,” she commands as she settles herself, and I gratefully obey, tucking myself under her arm and resting my head against her shoulder as she strokes my hair.  “So,” she says after a few moments of peace, “here we are, then.”

“Mmm,” I agree, my equilibrium returning as the reality of being here soaks back in, moment by precious moment. 

“My duty is fulfilled, and so is your quest,” she continues. “Can it _truly_ be that we have nothing to do, you and I?”

“Well, I need to go to Denerim sometime,” I answer.  “I have some of the cure for Alistair – it will mean he should finally be able to father children.” Which reminds me; I still have to tell her about Kieran, but that can wait until I’ve spoken to Morrigan – a few more days will not hurt.

“I’m sure Queen Alfstanna will be delighted to hear that,” Leliana says.  “I know she loves him, but it must be hard for her to hear the whispers that accuse her.” She twists round so that she’s draped over me, staring down at me.  “Don’t you have to return to the Vigil?” she asks.

“No,” I reply, combing my fingers idly through her hair.  “As soon as I reached Orzammar I sent a letter to Weisshaupt informing the First Warden that I was taking an extended leave of absence.”  I stare up at the ceiling for a moment.  “I’m tired, Leliana.  I have an obligation to the Wardens, and I would not forsake it, but after so long a spell in the Roads… I need a rest.  I’ve handed my duties as Commander for Ferelden over to Nathaniel. He’s been doing them for two years anyway, and I think he enjoys it more than I ever did.”

Leliana holds me a little tighter.  “What you said in Valence, about my being more than simply the Left Hand, or the bard… sometimes, I think that you forget it is true of you as well, yes?” She tucks my hair behind my ear.  “You’re more than just a Grey Warden. I understand why you had to make that the whole of your person while you were gone, but…” she strokes my cheek tenderly, “you’re free to be so much more, now, no?”

“You’re right, but… I don’t know if I remember how to be more,” I admit worriedly.

Leliana kisses me, a slow, sensual kiss that sets my nerves tingling.  Eagerly, I reciprocate, teasing her tongue gently with mine, trailing my fingers down her back with tantalising lightness.  She squirms, then laughs softly as we break. “You’re doing quite well with remembering how to be my lover,” she remarks, nipping at my lower lip.  “I’m sure I will be able to remind you of some of your other talents.”

I wrap my arms around her, revelling in the silken smoothness of her warm skin. “You make a compelling argument.”

“You think so? I’m so pleased,” she chuckles, then her smile fades.  “I know how much your duty means to you.  All I’m saying is that now you have time to do more.  You will be a Warden until the day you die. And I will be a bard.  These things, they are part of us, help define who we are.  But they need not be all of us. You have freed the Wardens from their restrictions – the order will be able to change and grow.  And you can guard against the Blight just as well from Denerim, from a campsite by the Imperial highway, from here, or even from the court in Val Royeaux.”

“Val Royeaux?” I half-protest. “Are you planning already?”

“Not really,” Leliana grins.  “I’m just… not sure we should leave Cassandra _entirely_ on her own to deal with both the Chantry and the court. Maker, can you imagine her approach to Orlesian court intrigue?  Whole swathes of Val Royeaux society could end up in exile.”

“That’s not necessarily a bad thing,” I muse, thinking of a certain enchantress.  “In fact, if she’s serious about that as a goal, she has my full support.”

Leliana chuckles, then frowns, leaning up on her elbow to look down at me inquisitorially.  “What did Vivienne say to you this time?” she demands, irritation roughening her voice.

I tip my head back, breaking eye contact as I laugh.  “Maker, I’d forgotten how damnably perceptive you are.”

“Aryn?”

I sigh.  “Cassandra didn’t give her the chance to really get started.  She managed to call me a rat and a coward in the elegant, well-turned salvo she got off, though.” I slap my palm off the bed. “She’s a stuck-up, conceited bitch.”

“She _is_ a dreadful snob, and she’s terribly conservative, but she was brave enough to join us when we were still struggling,” Leliana observes.  “And Duke Bastien died just before we took the fight to Corypheus.  I can’t help but feel sorry for her, actually. She’s alone now, and thanks to her political choices, she likely always will be.”

“Well, now you’re making me feel bad for someone who persists in calling me dog-lord,” I complain, and Leliana giggles, tweaking my nose.

“Oh, I’m sorry, my love. I didn’t mean to disrupt your tantrum.” She sighs as she settles against me, satisfied once more.  “We don’t have to decide now. There’s plenty of time for us to think things through.  We should also talk to Cassandra, and Sam, but, beloved…” she nuzzles her lips against my cheek, “if you really do want to leave everything behind us, you need only say the word.”

“That has a certain appeal,” I admit, “but you’re right.  We don’t need to decide now.” The lassitude of contentment is creeping over me, tugging me towards sleep. “World-shaking decisions” I yawn, “can certainly be made tomorrow.” I crane my neck and look up at her.  “Would you sing for me, beloved?”

She smiles, then lifts her angelic voice in song. The ancient lullaby echoes in the warm dark as I close my eyes and drift to sleep, safe and content in my Nightingale’s arms.


End file.
